


10 steps to free

by Loftec



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cancer, Fix-It, M/M, Post Season 5, Reconciliation, Recovery, treatment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: Post 5x12.Mickey hasn't seen his ex in over a year when he bumps in to a distraught Ian at the supermarket. Expecting some bad news, Ian asks Mickey to come with him for a doctor's appointment.Mickey agrees, 'cause whatever's happened between them in the past, they're still fucking family.Content warning.Please consult the notes at the beginning for a complete warning.





	1. The Supermarket

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Death_by_Gallavich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_by_Gallavich/gifts).



> **Content warning.** In this fic, Ian is diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma, which is a form of cancer. There will be glimpses of his diagnosis, treatment, and recovery, but everything will be from Mickey's perspective while he tries to keep his distance, so details will mostly be vague and incidental. Mentions of medication, nausea, depression, and (intravenous) chemotherapy.
> 
> The focus of this story is recovery.

1\. The Supermarket

 

January 10  
_ _ _ _ _ _

Mickey is walking through the automatic doors when his phone rings, and for a second he considers doubling back out of the supermarket to take the call on the parking lot instead. But it’s cold as shit out and he doesn’t trust the looming grey clouds he saw driving over here not to fuck him up if decides to test them, so fishing out his cell he accepts the call as he grabs a basket and moves through the gates.

”Sup,” he lazily greets the caller, absently smirking at the quick flash of a smiling face on the screen announcing who it is.

 _”Garlic,”_ Jamie launches straight into demands, _”oh, and double A batteries.”_

”Batteries?” Mickey complains, hooking the basket over his elbow and lingering by the magazine rack right next to the entrance, just in case moving further inside the bunker-like building would cause him to lose connection. ”What exactly are you cooking that you need fucking batteries?”

Mickey grins when he’s practically able to hear Jamie rolling his eyes.

 _”The garlic’s for dinner,”_ he explains, _”the batteries are for me, ’cause I’m cute and you like me.”_

”Uh-huh,” Mickey neither agrees nor disagrees, ”so what? I’m just your personal shopper now? Gonna call me whenever and just demand shit?”

 _”Uh-huh,”_ Jamie copies him, _”or I’ll just call one of my other boyfriends, if you prefer that?”_

Mickey snorts, but he can’t help smiling at the implications of Jamie’s gentle teasing.

”Maybe,” he says, absently scanning his eyes over the magazines, checking if there’s anything jumping out at him as interesting enough to spend money on. He likes reading this shit, but it’s rare that he feels like it’s worth his hard earned pennies. Those were the days when he’d just hide a copy of _Black Inches_ inside an _Us Weekly_ and stick it down the back of his pants. 

His mind touches briefly on long summer days at the Kash and Grab, years ago, reading all the gossip mags he wanted and stealing glances at an increasingly complicated life, embodied in Ian fucking Gallagher looking back at him like he was worth the trouble. Warm skin cooling down, hidden in the walk-in fridge, Ian stuck to his back as he worked inside him and breathed against his ear, goosebumps flaring up his neck and down his chest.

 _”Too bad,”_ Jamie’s flirty voice breaks him out of his thoughts with a shudder, _”’cause I’m asking you.”_

”Alright,” Mickey hums, happy to step away from the rush of old memories as he aimlessly starts to wander further inside the store, ”guess I’m gettin’ you some fuckin’ batteries. You said double A?”

 _”Rechargeable,”_ Jamie adds and laughs when Mickey groans, _”I’ll pay you back.”_

”Like shit you will,” Mickey huffs and he realizes it might sound like a complaint, but he’s pretty sure Jamie knows him well enough by now to get that it’s a promise, ”that it?”

 _”That’s it,”_ Jamie assures him with a soft chuckle, _”thanks. See you in like, half an hour?”_

”Yeah,” Mickey nods, ”bye.”

He terminates the call and tucks the phone away down his back pocket, surveying his surroundings to get his bearings. There’s not a lot of things on his mental shopping list, just a handful of items Jamie had emailed him about earlier during the day, in preparation for their date, and now garlic and batteries. He mutters the short list to himself as he makes his way down the aisles, trying and pretty much failing to find the most efficient route through the store, picking out what he needs.

He’s about ready to get in line for the checkout when he realizes that he’s forgotten the damned garlic, and has to go all the way back to the other end of the store to get it.

”Fuckin’ garlic,” he mutters as he rounds the last corner before the store opens up to the fresh produce section, and Mickey finds himself staring straight at a face he hasn’t seen in over a year.

It’s not one of his proudest moments, but his immediate reaction is to stop dead in his tracks and then back right the fuck up until he’s hidden from view by a large stack of canned beans.

”Ridiculous,” he berates himself, closing his eyes for a second to mentally check if he didn’t in fact just freak out over some random redhead. Nope. No. It was definitely him. Ian Gallagher. Mickey saw him for a split second and his whole body is thrumming with some kinda instinctual excitement. It’s like coming face to face with a big-ass snake, blood rushing and skin prickling and brain hitting escape.

There’s no reason for him to hide from Ian, there really isn’t. Sure, the guy broke up with him and that shit’s always gonna be awkward, but it’s been _over a year_ and Mickey thinks he’s probably gone months at this point since he last thought of Ian in any significant way — with anger or hurt, or longing, or love — and not just in throwaway nostalgic flashes of random memories. There’s no reason for him to hide right now, like any of this is news, like their wounds are still fresh. Not that he knows anything about Ian’s wounds, but judging by the way Mickey got dumped he figures the guy ought to be A-fucking-okay.

Still, despite the supposed fact that they live in the same neighborhood, Mickey hasn’t once in the whole year since they broke up managed to bump into his ex, or even seen him from afar in time to duck the fuck out of his way. So maybe he can allow himself to be startled, and indulge in a second of irrational hiding, before he grows some goddamned balls and goes out there to grab what he came here for. Which is garlic, and nothing else.

Or. Maybe if he just hangs out with the beans for a minute, Ian might have had time to go away and Mickey won’t have to deal with seeing him, or talking to him, or feeling anything beyond inconvenienced and embarrassed. 

Two things he never would’ve imagined anyone capable of making him feel. Leave it to fucking Ian Gallagher to get that shit _done_.

”Shit,” he mutters and carefully peeks around the mountain of cans, immediately spotting Ian standing in the exact same spot as two, maybe even three, minutes ago, ”the fuck, shit, fucking asshole. You’re such a bitch-ass pussy, man, c’mon.”

He’s not sure who he’s talking to at this point, but he’s starting to suspect that it isn’t Ian. Whatever, fuck garlic, right? Not like it’s a staple food, they’re not gonna starve without it. Who the fuck cooks with garlic for a fucking date, anyway? Fucking stupid. What the fuck is he doing?

”What are you doing?” he mumbles, and he’s pretty much certain he’s not talking to himself this time. He’s been so busy freaking out that he hasn’t really noticed that Ian’s not moved in almost five minutes, standing in the middle of piles of fruit and staring at the same sign the whole time, with the same set, far-away expression. 

Mickey can’t help feeling like there’s something seriously wrong going on. Ian looks good, his hair is shorter and he generally appears a lot healthier than he did last time Mickey saw him. Which isn’t really saying all that much considering how desperately un-well Ian had been then, but it’s still a great relief. 

A relief severely undermined by the look on Ian’s face. It’s a look Mickey knows all too well, and it’s a look he would’ve done _anything_ to never see on Ian ever again. Well, anything short of breaking up with the fucker. Mickey’s pretty sure he never would’ve gone that far.

It’s a face that brings to mind dingy, free clinics and hardened, unfazed psychiatrists. It reminds him of visits to that damned psych ward, and unfocused, dull eyes looking right past him.

Forgetting all about his own freak-out for a second, Mickey doesn’t give it much thought before he steps out from behind the beans and slowly makes his way towards Ian. He’s well within his field of vision already, but Ian doesn’t even react to his approach as he rounds a mound of apples and walks up his aisle.

”Ey, Gallagher,” Mickey tries, still a good distance away, not looking to freak the guy out if he wants to be left alone with whatever it is that’s had him this spooked.

But Ian still doesn’t move, and Mickey’s close enough to see the way he’s clenching his jaw and staring at nothing. He’s standing by the grapefruits and he’s holding one in his hand, it looks ready to burst open from his tight grip, bulging out between the long fingers closing around it.

”Easy,” Mickey walks up to him and carefully reaches out to take the fruit out of his hand before he makes a mess. Ian doesn’t seem to notice him at all until their fingers brush with Mickey’s light touch, and he suddenly sways on his feet as he blinks and meets Mickey’s searching gaze.

”Mickey?” he mumbles and frowns, like he isn’t entirely sure he trusts his own eyes. Mickey lets his hand down on Ian’s until the grapefruit slips out of it and Ian stops looking at him like he’s some kinda ghost.

”You okay?” Mickey asks, letting their hands slip apart with a step back and ignoring the way Ian moves with him for a second, before he too backs off.

”Yeah,” he croaks, clearing his throat as he very obviously avoids looking Mickey in the eye, ”yeah, fine.”

”Ian,” Mickey says, because he knows it’ll get his attention, ”fuck’s wrong with you?”

He doesn’t ask if Ian’s off his meds, because as far as he knows he might never have been _on_ them. After all, Ian broke up with him because he didn’t want to take the damned things. 

But regardless of any potential bitter irony, Mickey’s hoped — and on one or two (blindingly) drunken occasions prayed — that Ian would have found it in himself to accept his diagnosis and decided to take better care of himself. Looking at him now Mickey thinks he might have hoped in vain, and he doesn’t know what to do about that other than to sternly remind himself that it’s none of his business anymore. He’s not gonna ask about the meds unless Ian brings it up himself, he’s learned that fucking much, if nothing else.

”Jesus,” Ian mumbles and takes another step back, rubbing nervously at his neck, ”just-, it’s nothing.”

”You sure about that?” Mickey asks and huffs when Ian doesn’t meet his eyes, he never could hide when he was lying. ”’Cause you’re acting-”

”Crazy?” Ian interrupts, but he’s still kinda mumbling and it doesn’t sound like he necessarily disagrees.

”That wasn’t-,” Mickey starts and stops when Ian chuckles and then abruptly bends his head, bringing a hand up to wipe it across his eyes. ”Hey, come on. You’re fucking scaring me, man.”

”Fuck,” Ian curses, his voice muffled behind his hand before he lets it drop and he visibly tries to pull himself together, shaking his head and slowly exhaling, ”don’t know why I-, shit, you don’t wanna hear this.”

”Fuck you,” Mickey disagrees, without any real bite, and steps a little closer so he can search out Ian’s bent gaze and hold it, ”you want me to fuck off and mind my own fucking business, I will. Or you could just tell me what the fuck’s going on and maybe I can help or some shit, right? I’ve been told I can be pretty useful in a pinch.”

”I remember,” Ian sighs, but there’s the hint of a smile pulling at the side of his lips and a softness in his eyes that always seemed to precede the decision to let Mickey in past one of his many walls.

Mickey raises his eyebrows in silent encouragement, happy not to nag now that he’s certain Ian’s gonna tell him what happened, in his own time.

”Got a call,” Ian nods, frowning at himself, ”from my doctor’s office, they want me coming in to talk about some test results.”

”Okay?” Mickey says, uncertain how he’s supposed to react to that.

”If there’s nothing wrong they could’ve told me on the phone,” Ian continues, ”I mean… that’s how it works, right?”

”Maybe,” Mickey more or less admits, scowling at the thought when Ian winces, ”maybe not. Maybe they’re just covering their asses either way? What was the test for?”

”Just a checkup,” Ian tells him and then frowns, fixing his gaze somewhere on Mickey’s collar, ”but then they got me in for a biopsy last week, said they just wanted to make sure it was nothing.”

Ian finishes his sentence by pulling in a quick breath, like he’s trying to calm himself down. 

”Okay,” Mickey starts, trying to find some kinda calm, reasonable way to approach this whole situation, ”when did they want you comin’ in now?”

”Um,” Ian hesitates and checks his phone for time, something slightly distressed passing across his face, ”shit… now. I gotta run.”

Mickey bites his lip and steps aside when Ian abandons his half full shopping basket on the floor and brushes past him. It’s weirdly anti-climactic. He hasn’t thought about bumping into Ian for months, but back when it was one of his more favored fantasies they’d always involve a lotta explosive confrontation and catharsis, some yelling and shouting, a little bit of fighting, a pinch of fucking if he was in that kinda mood. He frankly would have preferred all of that over this; some vaguely bad news and a very familiar rush of protective panic. 

”Hey Mick?” He turns around, surprised to realize that Ian hasn’t left yet when sees him standing there, staring back at him. ”Would you-”

Ian stops himself and bends his head, shaking it like he knows that the answer’s gonna be ’no’, whatever the question might be.

”What?” Mickey asks, placing his basket down on the floor and crossing his arms. ”C’mon Gallagher, spit it the fuck out.”

Huffing and pulling a hand through his hair, Ian nods and looks back at him. ”Could you come with me?”

Clamping down on his tongue just to keep from blurting out a quick ’let’s go’, Mickey feels his eyes widen as he tries to understand whatever the fuck’s going through Ian’s head right now. There was a time when Mickey’d give his left hand to hear something like that outta the stubborn asshole he used to call boyfriend — partner, lover, family, whatever — but now it just sounds kinda absurd.

”Sorry,” Ian mutters, nervous hands rubbing together in front of him as he observes Mickey’s silent reaction, ”shitty thing to ask, but-”

”Why?” Mickey finally blurts out, cutting him off. 

”Don’t know,” Ian shrugs, but then seems to catch how wrong that sounds, ”’cause I’m fucking scared, Mick. Don’t wanna do this alone.”

Thumbing at his bottom lip, Mickey sighs and pointlessly looks around the store before gesturing vaguely at Ian.

”You want me calling somebody?” he suggests. ”Fiona… Lip?”

Ian scoffs in a way Mickey doesn’t understand.

”No, no they don’t-,” he starts, but then seems to swallow whatever he meant to say, ”I didn’t tell anyone about the biopsy, guess I hoped it’d be nothing… fucking stupid, huh? It’s always fucking something with me.”

He shakes his head again, briefly closing his eyes, and for some reason it just tips the fucking scales for Mickey.

”Alright,” he says and starts walking, raising his eyebrows at Ian as he passes him, ”c’mon, I’m driving.”

Marching out of the supermarket Mickey doesn’t stop to check if Ian’s following him until he gets to his car, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder as he pulls the door open on the driver’s side. Ian seems to hesitate for a moment, stopping a few feet away from the car to silently watch Mickey getting in behind the wheel.

Mickey feels a flash of self-consciousness waiting on his ex to join him, he knows what his car looks like. It’s a beat-up old Honda he got second hand, and it sure looks the part. It’s not something you roll up and down the street in, looking to impress and devastate past lovers, but it _is_ something you can park on a South Side street at night and then find it unscathed and still there in the morning.

It’s a good car, and Mickey’s never felt like a chump for driving it. Until fucking now, with fucking Ian asking him to bend his whole life around him, again, and looking down at him in the process. Breathing out an annoyed puff of air through his nose, Mickey busies himself with adjusting the rear-view mirror and then turning the ignition, getting the car started whether his highness is in it or not.

But then the passenger door opens and Ian climbs inside, folding his long legs uncomfortably for a second before he finds the lever under the seat and scoots it back a couple of notches. Mickey refuses to look at him as he twists to check if the coast is clear, carefully backing out of his spot.

”Where to?” he asks as he shifts into first and starts creeping the car out of the parking lot.

”Washington Park,” Ian sounds normal when he answers, his voice just a little muffled while he twists in his seat to strap himself in, ”medical campus. I’ll direct you when we get there.”

Mickey nods, and then opts to ignore his passenger in favor of focusing on his driving. He’s always liked to drive, he finds it strangely calming. The world gets narrowed down to the insides of his car, where he is in complete control of himself and where he’s going. In contrast, he feels like he can stop taking responsibility for every little other thing going wrong that’s left on the outside of his domain; slowing him down and making him late, smacking him down whenever he’s found a way to pull himself up. Whenever he’s found a scrap of happiness.

He likes it less when there are other people in the car with him, infringing on his goddamned well-earned moments of zen. Ian had been the one shining exception, he’d fit into that bubble of peace like everything about Mickey naturally wanted to move around him, to accommodate for him. His silent breathing becoming part of the rhythm of the car and his heavy gaze a weight, a comfort, and more often not stuck to the side of Mickey’s face.

It still feels like the most natural thing in the world, even though it shouldn’t. But all the shit that’s gone down between them seems to go the way of everything else when Mickey starts driving, all the pain and heartache pushed to the outside and for a short while neither relevant nor _their fault_.

And it doesn’t help that Ian’s looking at him, either, in that way he’s always done. That whenever Mickey checks his blind spot or the mirrors, he catches sight of Ian’s Serious Thinky Face and those big, gluttonous eyes shamelessly following his every move.

Mickey clicks his tongue and smirks at himself when he realizes how unfair he’s being. Ian’s not some stuck up bitch and he never, not once, looked down on Mickey for having nothing. He never demanded anything of Mickey other than commitment, and not even that sometimes. It’d gotten kinda warped and fucked up at points in their relationship, and they were never perfect, whatever that means, but that doesn’t give Mickey a free pass to put shit on Ian now that don’t belong to him. 

Maybe he hesitated to get in the car because he knew what it would mean. Maybe because he knew it wouldn’t be awkward or difficult or feel at all wrong. Maybe he was remembering all those times Mickey’d taken him out for joyrides, teaching him how to drive stick and make safe left turns and parallel park and, provided they’d ended up somewhere private, finished the lessons by awkwardly riding his dick in the backseat until they were both glowing pink and the windows were dripping with condensation. 

Maybe he hesitated to get in the car ’cause he’s thinking about where they’re going, seeing right through the bubble to the other side, where dark clouds are looming and reality’s a potential shitstorm just waiting to happen.

Mickey spares him a more purposeful sideways glance, just to check if he’s looking at all worried or nervous, or close to whatever it was he’d been doing with that grapefruit stunt at the supermarket.

”What?” Mickey sputters and immediately lets his eyes dart back on the road after making a split second of direct contact with Ian’s. ”Fuck you lookin’ at?”

”You,” Ian admits, and Mickey can practically hear his stubborn chin sticking out in that one word alone, ”you look good.”

Pursing his lips together, Mickey shakes his head and refuses to smile, glaring at the taillights of the slow fuck in front of him blocking his route.

”Fuck off,” he shoots back as soon as he thinks he’s got his voice in control, and to anyone else he probably would’ve sounded like a dickhead, but Ian just grins. It’s quick and fades back into his default defensive blank expression as he turns away to look out the window, probably trying to hide it. But Mickey catches a glimpse of it in his rear view mirror, like a flash of light in the corner of his eye.

He’s missed being around Ian, how easy and exhilarating it is at the same time, he’s managed to forget how much he’s missed it. He has, however, not forgotten how much he hasn’t missed the fighting and the hurt, and the blunt realization that Ian managed to fall out of love while Mickey’d just started getting a grip on endlessness.

They drive the rest of the way in silence, only broken by Ian’s sparse directions once they get to Washington Park. Mickey doesn’t ask if he should wait in the car, he just gets out with Ian and walks through the campus with him, shoulders a good foot apart and faces forward, until they reach the right building and find the right entrance. 

Mickey makes sure to fall a few feet behind as Ian strides up to the reception and gets the nurse’s attention.

”Had an appointment at five,” he says, and Mickey can’t help noticing the way he’s gripping the edge of the counter, his pale knuckles turning even whiter, ”Gallagher, Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey shifts his feet and crosses his arms defensively, almost like he’s expecting trouble. That maybe Ian asked him here so he could fuck some of these bitch-ass medical professionals up if they decide to give him any shit. It’s an absurd fucking thought but Mickey runs with it, because really he feels his hackles rising anyway for a whole host of other reasons, all generally having to do with how much he fucking hates hospitals, and specifically to do with how much he hates seeing Ian in one. 

”Yes, Mr Gallagher,” the nurse finally finds his name on her computer, ”Dr Hashemian is expecting you, I’ll let her know you’re here. Have a seat and she’ll be right with you, sir.”

”Thanks,” Ian’s head moves with a curt nod and then he turns around, a faint hint of a smile flashing across his face when he sees Mickey, scowl on and guns out, ”Jesus Mick, look like you’re here to bust some kneecaps.”

”Tellin’ me I’m not?” Mickey jokes, raising his eyebrows as he turns with Ian to move over towards the waiting area.

”Sorry,” Ian sighs and sits down on one of the plastic benches lining the cramped room, resting his elbows on his knees and pulling his hands through his hair. He looks exhausted already.

Mickey on the other hand is too agitated to sit down. He lets his arms fall down his sides and tries to discreetly roll some of the tension out of his shoulders, absently flexing his fingers when it doesn’t work.

”You want me with you, or?” he decides to ask, just so he knows if he’s gonna need to _insist_ once the well-meaning members of staff start telling him what he can and can’t do.

Ian seems to think it over for a second, and then he looks up at Mickey with wide eyes, accentuated by his low angle.

”No,” he says, voice quiet but certain, ”you-”

”Mr Gallagher?” a voice suddenly interrupts him, and Mickey and Ian both turn to look over at the reception to see a middle-aged lady in a white coat staring back at them expectantly, a clipboard in her hands.

”Yeah,” Ian quickly announces himself and springs out of his chair, taking a couple of steps towards her before he seems to remember something and turns back to Mickey, ”you don’t have to stay.”

”Yeah, ’cause I’m gonna leave,” Mickey snarks and rolls his eyes, ”like I’m gonna miss the chance to laugh at your dumb ass all the way back home for getting worked up over some hairy mole on your balls or whatever, and all they done was snip it off and you’re fine. I’m stayin’ right here.”

Ian knows him too fucking well, because instead of having any kinda normal reaction to all that he just nods, pressing his lips together in a slight, thankful smile before turning away to go shake hands with the doctor and walk out of sight without so much as another word thrown in Mickey’s direction. Most people would call him an asshole, or at least call him out on his bullshit.

But Ian knows he runs his mouth when he’s nervous. And pissed, and bored, and high, and whatever, but that’s besides the point. Mickey knows how he sounds, he sounds like he couldn’t give fuck-all about anything when really he’s just trying to force the universe to bend to his will by talking circles around it, telling it how he needs shit to get done.

The universe rarely listens, but guess Mickey can’t do nothing about that but keep talking.

There are magazines in the waiting room, so Mickey manages to keep himself from freaking out completely for about twenty minutes. Fighting against the big ball of panic pushing up his throat like heartburn, and against the urge to step outside for a smoke and risk having Ian come back just to think he fucked off, Mickey eagerly accepts the distraction when his phone suddenly starts vibrating in his pocket.

”This okay?” he asks the nurse, who nods at him when he holds up the phone and raises his eyebrows at her. He gives her a tightlipped smile as thanks and then quickly accepts the call, putting the phone to his ear. ”Hey.”

 _”Hey Mickey, you okay?”_ Jamie asks, his voice mostly concerned but unmistakably also a little annoyed. Rightly fucking so.

”Yeah, fuck-,” Mickey sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and suddenly feeling the weight of the whole situation now when he has to put it into words for a third party, ”ran into Ian at the supermarket.”

 _”Jesus, alright,”_ there are some noises in the background that suddenly fade away, _”you okay?”_

”Yeah, fine,” Mickey can’t help a bitter smile when he thinks of how _not_ okay he had been with seeing Ian again, and how unimportant all of that seems now, ”he was real shook up about some bad news though. We’re at a clinic right now, he’s in with the doc as we speak.”

 _”Is everything alright?”_ Jamie sounds genuinely concerned and Mickey would have told him the whole thing if he didn’t feel like it was Ian’s private business, and not something he was allowed to share with just anyone.

”No fucking clue,” he admits, ”it could be bad. Thought the least I could do was drive him here and back.”

 _”Yeah, of course,”_ Jamie understands, he pretty much always understands, _”take all the time you need, call me later when you know what’s going on?”_

Mickey feels a stab of guilt for not even thinking of calling his boyfriend to let him know what was happening. He’s pretty sure it’s got everything to do with how difficult he finds it to let _anyone_ in, and more or less nothing to do with there being something wrong with _Jamie_.

”Maybe I could still come over tonight?” he suggests, kinda hating the way he sounds when he has to ask but does it anyway, because Jamie likes it when he tries and they make solid plans. They’re never any kinda special plans, but plans nonetheless. A home cooked meal, Netflix and chill, going down to Jamie’s local bar for a drink. ”Don’t know how long I’ll be, but-”

 _”It’s fine,”_ Jamie assures him, _”I’ll put everything in the fridge for tomorrow, and get some pizza instead. You can heat some up when you get here, or eat it cold.”_

It’s nice, all this shit’s so easy with Jamie. Mickey knows himself, he knows he’s slow to warm up to people, and slow to endear himself to them in turn. It’s all just a slow, slow process with a lotta potential for fucking up and giving up, and half the time Mickey doesn’t even know what he’s doing having a boyfriend when he could just as well be alone and get himself some strange whenever he needs to get off. 

But fuck if he doesn’t know himself, and he knows what he likes. And getting himself some strange was exactly what he was doing with Jamie until one day they weren’t strangers but _regulars_ , and then monogamous and then boyfriends. It was never his intention, or something he necessarily thought would ever happen again. But here he is, and even though whatever they’ve got going is a far cry from what he had with Ian, it’s difficult for him to see how that’s such a bad thing.

What he had with Ian had been all-consuming and nearly landed him in prison for attempted murder, besides crushing his heart along with his hopes and dreams when it ended.

”Thanks,” he mutters, not trusting his voice to hold up if he tries anything else, ”been a weird fuckin’ afternoon, man.”

 _”You can tell me all about it when you get here,”_ Jamie is quick to promise, and Mickey can’t help pulling a face at the thought, pretty fucking glad his unreasonably supportive boyfriend isn’t standing in front of him to see him doing it.

”Yeah,” he lies, pretty much confident in his own ability to be charmingly abrasive and still vague enough to get away with not actually telling Jamie shit.

He hears a door opening somewhere down the corridor Ian’d disappeared through and he immediately gets up to walk across the room and peer around the corner, seeing Ian stepping out from a room and shaking hands again with the doctor.

”Fuck,” Mickey sighs, watching Ian’s grim, bent face as he starts walking towards the waiting room, shoulders slumped and his steps slow, ”they’re done, gotta go.”

 _”Good luck,”_ Jamie offers, _”I hope it’s nothing bad.”_

”Yeah, me too,” Mickey says and swallows convulsively when Ian looks up and meets his eyes, walking the last stretch to meet him, ”bye.”

”Who’s that?” Ian asks when he gets close enough, watching Mickey terminate the call and pocket his phone.

”Nobody,” Mickey quickly dismisses the question and tries to get Ian to tell him what’s going on by just staring at him, lasting about ten seconds before he has to ask, ”so?”

Ian opens his mouth as though to say something, only to press his lips together and bend his head. They stand in silence for a long moment, like a couple of idiots, Mickey’s heart slowly breaking all over again until Ian finally shakes his head. For a second he thinks it might be a good shake, but as soon as the thought enters his brain he knows it’s not right.

He doesn’t think, he just steps forward and wraps his arms around Ian’s slumped shoulders and bent neck, holds him close and tries his best to regulate his own breathing by focusing on his ex’s long lost scent. Ian doesn’t push him away, he melts into it; hides his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck and grabs on to the back of his jacket, bunching up the fabric in his tightly clenched fists. 

”It’s fucking cancer,” he mumbles into Mickey’s skin, damp from tears and snot, ”it never fucking _ends_.”

”You’re gonna be fine,” Mickey promises, barely managing to push out the words above a whisper, ”not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Ian shakes with a sob and tightens his grip on Mickey, burrowing even closer.

”Gonna be fine,” Mickey mutters and carefully scratches his blunt nails up the short hairs on the back of Ian’s head as he closes his eyes and covers them with his other hand, ”please, Ian. Tell me you’re gonna be fine.”

He’s not allowed to cry right now, he can’t allow himself to be sad and broken when this is the one moment he’s been given to be _strong_ , to give Ian what he needs. He blinks over the tears gathering in his eyes and wipes at them, pinching his fingers over the bridge of his nose to will them away.

”Mr Gallagher?”

Mickey takes a deep breath and reluctantly pries himself away from Ian long enough to glare at the new, fresh-faced nurse practically gawking at them, trying to look sympathetic and pretty much failing.

”What?” he barks, even though he knows he should let Ian deal with this himself.

”We need to go over a couple of details with Mr Gallagher before he can leave,” the nurse explains, ”setting up a treatment plan for the next stage, finances-”

”The fuck?” Mickey immediately wants to fight, anything to feel like he’s doing _something_ , and he only barely refrains from flying off the handle once Ian steps a little closer, his long fingers gripping him gently above the elbow.

”Mick,” he says before he lets go of Mickey’s arm again, ”it’s fine.”

”This way, Mr Gallagher,” the nurse directs Ian towards another corridor with his whole hand, turning briefly to Mickey to hold out a small bunch of pamphlets, ”here, these cover some of the basics for patients and their loved ones, hopefully they can answer most of your questions.”

Mickey scowls at him but still takes the pamphlets, twisting them in his hands as he watches Ian walk away again.

The information in the pamphlets is infuriatingly vague and he only makes it through a couple of them before he throws them down on the bench and gets up to pace around the small waiting room. He asks the nurse for directions and then goes hunting for some coffee.

It’s like drinking death. But he paid two whole fucking bucks for it and it came in the smallest cup imaginable, so he’s determined to just grin and bear it. He sits down and leafs through the rest of the pamphlets. They mention shit like lymphoma and Hodgkin, chemo and radiation therapy and pills. More pills. Nausea and depression and hair loss and _cancer_. It’s like he still can’t fucking understand what’s wrong with Ian, even with reading about all of these boogeymen concepts he sure as fuck has heard of before, but never had to deal with first hand. 

Guess that’s not the case now either, it just fucking feels like it.

Ian is a lot more collected when he comes out the second time, his mouth in a stern line and the reddened bags under his eyes the only sign of his earlier tears. Mickey walks him back to the car in silence, keeping an eye on him the whole time while still maintaining a certain distance.

Ian doesn’t say anything until they’ve been driving for five minutes and he suddenly asks Mickey to make a turn that takes them somewhere that sure as fuck ain’t gonna get them anywhere near the Back of the Yards. Mickey doesn’t ask, he just follows Ian’s sparse directions until he asks him to stop when he can. Finding a wide enough gap between two cars, Mickey turns in and cuts the engine.

He expects Ian to immediately get out of the car, but maybe he can feel that comforting bubble too, in here, and knows as well as Mickey does that once he gets out it’s gonna pop, and there’s no telling when they’re gonna see each other again.

”You need money?” Mickey eventually decides to break the silence, trying to sort out the few things he _needs_ to know before Ian leaves. He scowls at Ian when he scoffs, like it’s some kinda dumb question.

”No, Mickey, I don’t need money,” he says, shaking his head and looking out the window, avoiding Mickey’s searching glare, ”got insurance through my job, got good coverage.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say about that. Of course Ian’s got a job, time hasn’t stood still since they broke up. He bites his lip to keep from asking more about it, it isn’t essential information.

”Been on meds for six months,” Ian offers voluntarily, after a few long moments, ”been really tryin’ to get my shit together.”

Mickey sniffs and wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, feeling some kinda bone-deep tension seeping out of him as he sits back in his seat and looks down the street. And _there_ , there’s that bitter irony too, left sitting in the emptiness after the ebbing tension. Ian’s been getting his shit together, only he wanted to do it without Mickey.

”Got a boyfriend,” Ian continues, but this time he sounds almost regretful. Mickey grins, because that shit’s just funny.

”Yeah?” he huffs, trying not to sound like it kills him to hear it, ”good for you. Me too.”

”Yeah?” Ian echoes him, his comforting voice almost down to a whisper at this point. ”You gonna tell him about me?”

Mickey glances his way and smirks at Ian’s serious expression, watching him closely in the dark car.

”He knows,” Mickey says and leaves it at that.

Ian nods and without another word gets out of the car. He hesitates on the curb, still holding the door open, and then he leans over to peer back in at Mickey.

”Thanks,” he says and swallows, eyes roaming over Mickey like he’s taking him all in, or maybe he’s trying to make sure he’s really there.

”Gonna make cancer your bitch, Gallagher,” Mickey tells him and grins when Ian’s lips turn up in a slight, lopsided smirk.

”Bye Mick,” he more or less just mumbles before straightening up and pushing the door closed after him.

Mickey should drive away, but instead he stays where he is and watches as Ian walks up the street, no more than a shadow under the sickly yellowed street lights until he stops at the mouth of a dark alleyway. 

For a second, Mickey’s gripped by the unreasonable fear that Ian actually doesn’t have anywhere to go, and as soon as Mickey drives off he’s gonna go sleep in the alley or get himself picked up by some John. But then he hears the muffled sound of someone’s excited ’hey!’ and a guy with a big, brilliant smile jogs across the street and walks right up to Ian, wrapping him up in a warm hug.

Mickey kinda wants to kill him but reluctantly concedes that he looks like a nice guy, even under the ominously dim lights. A nice fucking guy who kisses Ian softly on the lips before resting an arm across his shoulders and leading him into the shadows of the alleyway. Mickey narrows his eyes and stays put. Dude could still be a fucking creeper behind the nice clothes and shiny smiles, Mickey is after all a great believer in not judging books by their covers. 

But then the windows of the building next to the alley light up, and Mickey’s left with very little reason to still stalk the street, waiting for the slightest cue to jump out and rescue Ian from his new, potentially horrifying life.

He stays for another fifteen minutes anyway, until the cold has seeped into his car and all the way into his bones, before he gives up and drives home to South Side.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Johna, I'm really sorry I couldn't post this yesterday (and complete) as was my intention. I also went a bit off prompt, but I hope it's at least close to what you wanted ❤


	2. The Call

2\. The Call

 

February 13  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _

It’s past midnight when Mickey gets home. He’s had a nice evening all in all, but he thinks it’s probably telling that one of his favorite parts is still stepping through his own doors, feeling the comforts of home washing over him and putting him at ease in a way he rarely feels anywhere else. It’s a piece of shit house and it’s practically haunted it hides so many dirty secrets and bad memories, but it’s still _home_ and like fuck Mickey’s gonna surrender it to the demons lurking in the corners.

Some fucking paint and some regularly performed ritualistic sodomy, and it’s gonna be like new again. All his, this time.

He winces at his own thoughts as he wanders through the dark, quiet house, turning on the lights in the kitchen and absently opening the fridge to stare at the row of beers on the top shelf. 

Or he could just go to fucking bed. 

Closing the fridge again, he turns off the light and makes his way to his bedroom. He’s just about to turn on the lights in there too when he catches himself, noticing the crib rolled into the room and shoved in next to his bed. His wife has obviously deemed it his night to look after the offspring.

Claiming him and Svetlana to be some kinda well oiled parenting machine would be a grave overstatement, but they do have a system. Svetlana expects him to provide for his son and be a good dad, and Mickey always makes sure to come home at the end of every day, sober and clean.

Mickey would have anyway, regardless of her initial threats to skin him alive if he didn’t. It’s grown on him; respectability. Dressing up with his little shirt/tie getup every day and scamming the world into believing that he’s one of them, that he’s a good dad and a hard worker, that he’s content.

He almost believes it himself sometimes, and he only really doubts it once in a while these days. When it’s dark and quiet and his bed seems endless with the empty space behind him.

Making sure there’s no obvious movement in the crib calling for his immediate attention, Mickey walks through his still dark room to the bathroom to wash up and get ready for bed. When he comes back, there’s a small tuft of ruffled hair sticking up above the bannister of the crib, little fingers gripping the edge of it and big eyes following his movements through the room.

”What’s up little man?” Mickey grunts and raises an eyebrow at his son, wide awake at one in the morning despite Mickey’s best efforts not to disturb his sleep. ”Miss me, huh?”

He grins and gets a wide, toothy smile in return as Yevgeny starts bouncing up and down with his feet firmly planted on the mattress and his hands still gripping the bannister.

”Alright,” Mickey huffs, throwing his phone over to land on the bed before he gets undressed down to his boxers and the lightly stained tank he likes to sleep in, ”guess I missed you too, squirt.”

Yevgeny is making some pretty irresistible fart-noises and grabby-hands, but Mickey ignores it long enough to grab the baby monitor and turn it off, so he won’t have Svetlana busting into his room at any point during the night if Yevgeny decides to start fussing. Rolling his eyes at his son’s untimely energy, he grabs him under the armpits and picks him up.

”Mother Russia put you to bed early or something?” he complains, blowing a raspberry kiss into the toddler’s still chubby, soft cheek. ”Wanna hang out with me some?”

Using his free hand to push aside the covers, Mickey pretends to throw his giggling son down on the bed before carefully leaving him to crawl around on his own while he rearranges the pillows into a nice slope up against the headboard.

”C’mere,” he mutters and picks up the kid again as he sits down in his makeshift recliner, placing Yevgeny securely on his lap and leaning him back against his thighs so they can look each other in the eye and have some kinda decent conversation.

”Da, farfloop!” Yevgeny announces and points sternly at his dad. It’s nice that he’s talking and all, but fuck if Mickey understands even half of it. He can bet his sweet ass his commie wife’s made sure to mix in some of her Russian bullshit, too, which is just awesome for him.

”Sure buddy, fuckin’ farfloop is right,” he sighs, sinking down a little lower into the pillows and slowly rubbing the palm of his hand over Yevgeny’s belly, ”just got back from Jamie’s, sorry I wasn’t home for dinner.”

”Mash,” Yevgeny grins.

”Oh yeah?” Mickey says and yawns, pleased when it gets Yevgeny to mirror him, eyes already starting to droop again. Mickey’s never had any problem tricking the kid into falling asleep. ”Sounds good. Should probably try being around more, huh? Maybe it’s time I let Jay come here and hang sometime, how about that?”

Yevgeny nods, but it might just be because he’s having a hard time keeping his head up, his neck slowly disappearing as he’s falling asleep again.

”Know you liked the other guy,” Mickey mutters, gently stroking his fingers through his kid’s unruly hair, ”but it’s been over a year, you know? Gotta move on sometime.” 

Yevgeny snores.

”That how it is?” Mickey huffs. ”I get it, your old man’s love life ain’t exactly blockbuster material.” 

Trying not to disturb his son too much, Mickey reaches out a hand to blindly search the bed for his phone. It’s usually best to give it ten, fifteen minutes before trying to move Yevgeny in any way after he falls asleep, so Mickey needs to keep himself awake until the coast is clear and he’s able to safely carry the kid back to his crib. 

His creeping suspicion that he might in fact be sitting on his phone is confirmed when he suddenly feels a light buzz up his side, before the whole bed is vibrating with a silent call.

”The fuck?” he complains and twists his arm uncomfortably to get it in under his back and grab after the phone, quickly pulling it out to check who the fuck’s calling him at quarter past one in the morning.

He’s vaguely worried it might be Jamie, and that something’s happened in the hour since they parted. But whatever worry he might’ve felt about that kicks into high gear when he turns the phone around and sees Ian’s smirking face behind the flashing ’accept call’ button.

He almost doesn’t, but who’s he kidding? Of course he does. 

”Gallagher,” he mutters into the phone, trying to keep his voice down and still sound appropriately annoyed, ”you know what fucking time it is?”

 _”No,”_ Ian says at the other end and Mickey slowly lets out the air in his lungs, ignoring the flash of relief that it isn’t one of Ian’s siblings calling him with bad news. 

”Well, it’s late as shit, asshole,” Mickey exaggerates, glancing at his alarm clock, ”and some of us got work in the morning.”

 _”Did I wake you up?”_ Ian asks and while the question might sound like it’s posed out of concern, Mickey can’t help smirking at the clear challenge in his low voice.

”Woke up the whole house,” Mickey lies as he lets himself relax back into the pillows, resting his free hand on Yevgeny’s gently rising and falling belly, ”fuckin’ inferno of wailin’ babies and Russian yellin’ over here, all thanks to you.”

Ian just hums, the sound of soft sheets rustling in the background. Mickey imagines him in bed, maybe with that Nice fucking Guy with the big smile sleeping soundly next to him. He hasn’t heard as much as a fucking peep from Ian since he drove his ass to get diagnosed with fucking cancer a month ago, and Mickey has to bite his lip to keep from asking how he’s doing now. 

”You haven’t changed your phone,” he says instead, latching on to the sudden realization that Ian called from the same number he’d had while they were still together.

 _”Why would I?”_ Ian asks and it sounds like he’s moving, maybe he’s getting out of bed, closing the door behind himself as he slips out of earshot from his sleeping boyfriend.

”Living in that fuckin’ mansion,” Mickey scoffs and grins when Ian makes a small sound of protest, ”figured your new sugar daddy must’ve gotten you the latest model with like, fucking gold plates and his name engraved somewhere so you don’t forget whose dick to suck at the end of the day.”

He swallows and snaps his mouth shut, closing his eyes over the second of silence on Ian’s end. He’d meant to gently tease, but having said all that he’s pretty sure he just sounded like a jealous ex, and an absolute douchebag to boot.

 _”Pretty easy to transfer your old number to a new phone, Mick,”_ Ian eventually says, and it sounds a lot like he’s smiling, _”but no, haven’t changed shit and fuck you, mansion-, it’s a fuckin’ converted garage with the L running right next to it. It’s a shitty artist’s studio crammed full of junk and smellin’ like grease and metal.”_

”Alright, easy,” Mickey snorts, relaxing when Ian doesn’t seem too hurt by his running mouth, ”kinda tripping over yourself tryna hold on to your cred there, South Side.”

Ian chuckles and it sounds like he’s taking a seat, the faint groan of a well used couch following the world-weary sigh of an old man sitting down. Mickey would tease him about it if he didn’t have something else in mind.

”Artist, huh?” Mickey asks, trying not to sound like he wants to spit after saying it.

 _”Mh-hm,”_ Ian confirms, _”and firefighter.”_

Mickey clicks his tongue and raises an eyebrow, lowering his voice again when Yevgeny moves in his sleep.

”That two dudes at once, or the same dude?”

 _”Just the one,”_ Ian reassures him drily.

This whole conversation is seriously starting to make Mickey rethink that beer. But he can’t move, and he can’t fucking stop himself from sticking his nose in it. ”He treating you right?”

Ian doesn’t answer and Mickey rests his head back against his man-made mountain of pillows, blinks up at the dark ceiling and revels in the heavy silence. Even with his heart cramping up at the thought of Ian getting himself into another bad situation with yet another asshole that _isn’t_ Mickey, he knows it’s none of his fucking business.

It feels like it is, but he knows it isn’t.

”Fuck,” he mutters and takes his hand off Yevgeny to rest it over his stinging eyes, ”fuck did you call me for, Ian?”

 _”Don’t know,”_ Ian admits, but there’s something in his voice that immediately calms Mickey down. Ian probably knows exactly why he called him, and all he needs is just a little time to get it out.

Mickey sighs and swipes his hand up over his forehead, combing his fingers through his hair before resting his hand on the pillow above his head. He can wait, he’s good at that.

 _”Can’t sleep,”_ Ian eventually starts with the obvious, letting out a heavy sigh before he continues, _”keep thinking-, whatever… just a lotta shit, can’t turn it off.”_

”Thinking about what?” Mickey asks, frowning up at the shadowy shapes on his ceiling.

 _”Stuff,”_ Ian clearly tries to evade the question, _”dumb shit, just one of those fucking nights, you know?”_

Mickey bites his lip to keep from telling Ian how he doesn’t fucking know, he doesn’t know at all. But he knows Ian, and pushing his own hurt aside he thinks he might be able to imagine what he’s going through.

If it’s anything like last time life slapped him with a diagnosis, then Mickey knows exactly what he’s going through.

”Okay?” Mickey sighs, swallowing down the desire to put himself on the line for Ian, again and again, and offer to give him whatever he needs. ”So why don’t you just wake up your fucking boyfriend if you feel like you gotta bug someone?”

 _”Yeah,”_ Ian sighs, and it sounds like he’s rubbing a hand over his face, _”suppose.”_

It sucks, this whole situation, it fucking sucks. It always did, ever since Ian got it in his head to end them, but most days Mickey can just ignore it and get on with his own shit, reminding himself that Ian’s problems aren’t his anymore.

Ian calling him in the middle of the night and sounding like he’s got no one else to turn to is _heartbreaking_ , and sure fucking feels like Mickey’s problem right now.

 _”Kinda on a break,”_ Ian suddenly says, words coming out in a quick mumble like he’s still unsure if it’s something he wants Mickey to know.

Mickey frowns. ”What does that mean?”

 _”Means I’ve moved back home, sleeping in my old bed, you know?”_ Ian huffs when he seems to think of something. _”Can’t believe we used to fit on that thing, both of us.”_

”Didn’t,” Mickey reminds him, unable to stop himself from being pulled in by the nostalgic tilt to Ian’s voice, ”was practically sleeping on top of your lanky ass for weeks, or on the fucking floor when I couldn’t deal with your unruly limbs.”

Ian chuckles. _”Wasn’t ’cause of my limbs you were sleeping on the floor, Mick.”_

”Pretty sure it was,” Mickey drily disagrees, smiling softly at the silence on the other end. 

What a fucking idiot he’d been back then, afraid of every little step he managed to stumble closer to Ian with each thing he promised himself never to give away but kept losing anyway. To _him_. Being curled up on Ian’s old twin bed seems like one of their better memories now, arms and legs all tangled up to keep from falling off the damned thing.

”You moved in with him?” Mickey asks, pulling in a sharp breath after the question falls out and desperately trying to cover it up by piling on more words. ”The guy-, the artist fireman kinda-on-a-break boyfriend guy?”

 _”No,”_ Ian sighs, _”but you know how it is, full house here and the two of us there, I stayed over a lot. Was supposed to go with me tomorrow but I guess that’s not happening now.”_

Ian sounds kinda absently bitter about it, and it piques Mickey’s interest. ”What’s tomorrow?”

 _”Uh,”_ Ian hesitates, some light rustling filling the noticeable pause before he continues, _”chemo. Starting my second cycle.”_

Mickey swallows over the dry lump in his throat, but it doesn’t go away. ”You okay?”

 _”Yeah, Mick,”_ Ian is quick to reassure him, even though Mickey can hear the slight tremble in the stifled sigh following, _”they say it’s working anyway, can’t really do much but take their word for it.”_

”But you’re gonna be okay?” Mickey can’t resist asking, just in case there’s gonna be another month until he hears from Ian again. If ever. ”You’re doing good?”

 _”Yeah,”_ Ian says again, and this time he sounds more sure, maybe like he’s smiling, like the dumbass is pleased to find out that Mickey still cares. _”Was kinda rough last time, not really looking forward to doin’ it again, but yeah… at least it’s temporary, you know?”_

Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut, nodding dumbly as he thinks about forty years, life, and about thick and thin, sickness, health, _all that shit._ He gets what Ian’s saying, but he can’t help thinking that temporary things are grossly overrated. 

”Wait,” he says and scowls up at the ceiling when he suddenly remembers what Ian said before, ”who’s takin’ you tomorrow if Picasso bailed on you?”

 _”He’s hardly fucking Picasso,”_ Ian chuckles, clearly putting off answering for as long as he can, which he’s smart enough to realize won’t be very long at all. Mickey purses his lips together and raises his eyebrows at the dark ceiling, and silently vows not to utter another word until Ian decides to talk. 

_”No one,”_ he eventually admits, _”Uber.”_

”Uber,” Mickey repeats, and it sounds even worse said in his own, incredulous tone, ”you’re taking a fuckin’ Uber to chemo?”

 _”Would’ve gone for a limo,”_ Ian tries to joke, _”but turns out my benefits don’t cover extra swag, so…”_

”When is it?” Mickey asks, impatient with Ian’s stubbornness and already certain of how this is going to pan out.

_”When’s what?”_

”Don’t give me any of that shit, Ian,” Mickey grips the phone harder and has to focus on keeping his voice down, ”when’s your fucking appointment?”

 _”In the morning,”_ Ian reluctantly sighs, _”at nine, but Mick-”_

”Don’t fuckin’ ’but Mick’ me, asshole,” Mickey interrupts him, ”when do we gotta leave?”

Ian sighs again, like asking this of Mickey is the hardest thing he’s ever done and he isn’t even the one even asking. _”Eight thirty, I guess, but I’ve already-”_

”Don’t care,” Mickey shakes his head, ”cancel it, have your shit ready at eight twenty and I’ll come pick you up, don’t fucking argue with me on this, Gallagher, you’re not going to fucking chemo _alone_ , it’s not happening.”

 _”It takes up most of the day,”_ Ian still tries to argue.

”So?” Mickey feels his eyebrows rise with the slightly desperate pitch of his voice. ”I’ll drop your ass off, go to work, come back when you’re done, piece of piss.”

 _”Not letting you miss work over this,”_ Ian huffs, and the ingrate sounds infinitely more annoyed than thankful for all of Mickey’s generosity.

”Don’t worry about it,” Mickey smirks, ”flexible schedule, bitch, I set my own hours.”

 _”Really?”_ Ian sounds surprised, but not in the way Mickey’s come to expect from people when he tells them that he’s managed to land himself some kinda employment.

Ian sounds surprised, but genuinely pleased. For all he knows Mickey’s neck deep in dealing or back in the pussy trade, but he doesn’t ask and there’s not even a trace of judgement in his quietly sincere; _”That’s great, Mick.”_

It’s tender and proud and it kinda constricts Mickey’s throat around all the things he’s wishing he could say to Ian, if only he still had that privilege. If Ian still had it.

”Whatever,” he says instead, ”think that’s what they call check fuckin’ mate.”

There’s a long silence, like Ian’s racking his brain trying to find some excuse that’ll let him refuse Mickey’s offer. It stings, but if Ian thinks a couple of hurt feelings is gonna stop Mickey from doing this one, stupidly simple thing to help, then he really needs to think again.

 _”Alright,”_ Ian eventually sighs.

”Alright what?” Mickey goads, he wants to hear the self-reliant bonehead say it, repeat it like a fucking vow.

 _”Alright, I’ll cancel the Uber,”_ Ian huffs, the tense annoyance slowly melting from his voice, _”and I’ll have my shit ready at eight twenty so you can pick me up.”_

”Damn fuckin’ right you will,” Mickey agrees with a pleased smirk. He always liked winning, even now, when his pointless victory comes with a bottomless pit of dread and excitement opening up inside him at the thought of being around Ian again, for whatever reason.

 _”What is it?”_ Ian suddenly asks, the question nonsensical for a moment before he adds some context. _”Your job?”_

It’s weird that Ian doesn’t know, and even weirder that Mickey kind of doesn’t want to tell him.

”I sell cars,” he says anyway, and he thinks he might have been fucking dying to tell Ian about it when he hears his wonderful, stumbling laugh, ”ey, ’m not fucking kidding.”

 _”What?”_ Ian’s reaction is playfully disbelieving, but Mickey still feels warm all over, picking up on all the undertones of joy and pride that Ian’s not really trying very hard to hide. _”How the hell did that happen?”_

”Man, I don’t fucking know,” Mickey chuckles, stifling it the best he can so he won’t jostle Yevgeny too much, ”fuckin’ probation officer got me in touch with this garage, on South Western? Went in for the interview thinking they’d have me be some kinda assistant grease monkey out back, or whatever.”

_”But it wasn’t?”_

Mickey shakes his head.

”Wasn’t even a fuckin’ interview,” he reveals, smirking at the memory, ”next thing I know, the manager’s shoving me inside a janitor’s closet with a shirt and tie from the lost and found, tellin’ me to dress more appropriately next time-”

He grins wider when Ian laughs and lets out a low _’oh wow’_.

”Yeah,” he agrees, ”tells me he don’t give a fuck who I am or where I came from, as long as I’m selling cars I got a job.”

 _”Pretty sure you could sell ice to an eskimo,”_ Ian states, like he’s always been aware of Mickey’s persuasive prowess, _”you like it?”_

Mickey scoffs and opens his mouth to say something about how it puts food on the table, or how it’s at least moderately better than pimping, if only ’cause he no longer has to deal with all the boobs hanging out and getting in his face.

”Kinda love it,” he says instead, ”I’m good at it. I sold a car my first day there and Danny got all weird about it, callin’ me son and welcomin’ me to the family, some shit like that.”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, cheeks heating with pleased embarrassment at the memory. ”Wouldn’t go that fuckin’ far, you know?”

Ian hums, he knows what that word means to Mickey. _Family_. How important it is, how irrevocably permanent it is.

”But it’s good,” Mickey continues, clearing his throat, ”it’s a lot like scamming, only people wanna get scammed and the cops can’t get to me, so… guess it’s all perks.”

Ian doesn’t comment on it. Maybe he’s impressed, maybe he thinks it’s shit. Mickey kinda prefers not to know, if he’s honest.

 _”I’m an EMT now,”_ he blurts out instead, his tone a familiar mix of nerves and determination, _”worked really hard to get there.”_

”I know,” Mickey says, but doesn’t tell him how or why he knows. That he got updates from Ian’s siblings for months after their breakup, that he’s been really fucking proud of him for finding a new goal to work towards. 

It’s been a while since he last heard anything about it, Debbie’s last unanswered text is probably almost six months old by now, but Mickey never thought for a second that Ian wouldn’t make it.

 _”Well,”_ Ian sniffs, voice hard, _”guess I’m not one right now. Can’t work with my immune system shot to hell from the chemo, so I’m stuck at the house and restless as fuck when I’m not sleeping whole days away.”_

”You’re sick, Ian,” Mickey reminds him, like a fucking jerk, ”all you gotta do is get better, all that shit will still be there after.”

 _”Sure,”_ Ian sighs, obviously tired of being told to be patient with his slow recovery.

”Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck major ass,” Mickey admits, quirking a pleased smile when Ian huffs, ”getting so far only to have this shit slap you down again. You don’t fuckin’ deserve it.”

 _”Pretty sure no one does,”_ Ian corrects him, but Mickey still thinks he sounds like he appreciates Mickey trying.

”Guess not,” Mickey hums, wedging his free hand in behind his head so he can comfortably angle it and rest his eyes on his still sleeping son. 

Ian hasn’t bothered to ask or anything, but Mickey still feels the sudden urge to tell him about the kid. He’d kinda been _theirs_ , once, and Ian had never been subtle about his love for Yevgeny. Getting over Ian has meant that Mickey’s had to revaluate a lot of shit he’d once thought was true – about their relationship and Ian’s feelings – but it doesn’t matter how long it’s been or how little Ian’s tried to remain in Yevgeny’s life since he left (which is _not at all_ , by the way), Mickey _knows_ he still loves the baby.

Almost two years old, he’s not a baby anymore. He’s a brand new person, changing and growing every day.

And whenever something happens with the kid, Mickey’s knee-jerk reaction is to call for Ian to ’get the fuck in here, and look at this cute little shit!’, the words sticking at the back of his throat before he’s even remembered that Ian isn’t there. First steps, first word, first second third whatever, every damn day there’s something new and Ian’s missed a whole year of it.

It’s unfair and Mickey thinks he probably should be pissed at Ian for leaving this behind, too, but he can’t. Instead he just wants to tell him about all of it, and it’s stupid as fuck that he feels like he shouldn’t.

 _”I mi-,”_ Ian starts, cutting himself off when Mickey manages to choose the exact same second to open his mouth.

”I gotta-,” he says and swallows the rest of the sentence, waits a couple of long moments on the off-chance that Ian would give whatever it was he wanted to say another go. But it’s awkward and ridiculous and Mickey can’t stand the heavy silence for very long.

”Gotta go,” he says, suddenly exhausted.

 _”Yeah,”_ Ian quietly agrees, and apparently he’s changed his mind about whatever he was gonna tell Mickey before.

Whatever it was, Mickey thinks he’s probably better off not hearing it.

”Need my beauty sleep,” he tries to joke it off, smirking to himself when he hears Ian’s light chuckle, ”gotta get up early to chauffeur some bozo around, like I’m fuckin’ Morgan Freeman.”

 _”What an asshole,”_ Ian commiserates, _”and Morgan Freeman’s got nothing on you.”_

”No?” Mickey snorts. ”You realize he’s like closing in on eighty now, right? Thought that’d be right up your alley.”

 _”Fuck you,”_ Ian clearly tries to sound offended, but Mickey can still hear him smiling.

”Yeah, yeah,” Mickey sighs, absently rubbing the pads of his fingers over the dopey grin pulling at his own lips, ”fuck you too, man.”

He doesn’t say goodbye, he just lowers the phone from his ear and rests it on his chest, screen down and his hand on top of it. When he flips it over a minute later, Ian’s hung up and the screen has gone black. Just to make sure, he presses the top button and winces at the brightness of his lock screen, flashing the time right in his face.

1:47 AM

The plan had been to transfer Yevgeny back to his crib, but considering everything from his lazy bones to his drooping eyes and aching heart, Mickey ends up shuffling to one side (his side) of the bed before gently wrapping his arms around his sleep-heavy son and carefully shifting him over to lie next to him instead. Bringing the cover up to his waist, so it won’t end up smothering Yevgeny in his sleep, Mickey turns on his side and inches himself closer to the toddler’s warm body until he can feel the light brush of the kid’s hand-me-down bunny-print pajamas against his forearm. He leans closer and loosely drapes his free arm over Yevgeny’s small body, to keep him warm and safe though the night.

Yevgeny’s never been a big fan of sleeping in his crib, anyway. And not that it’s anyone’s business, but Mickey fucking hates sleeping alone.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for giving this a try even though it's a tough read. It's a tough thing to write, too, turns out. It's gone easier the last few weeks though and I decided on a posting schedule that I (believe it or not) am actually following right now. 
> 
> ❤


	3. The Boyfriend

3\. The Boyfriend

February 13  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mickey leans back against the car and puffs on his cigarette, glaring absently at the grey skies when he thinks he feels the light splatter of a stray raindrop on his forehead. Exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nostrils he takes the half-burnt cigarette from his lips, wedging it between two fingers as he holds out his hand, palm up.

It’s not raining, but fuck knows how long that’s gonna last. The horizon’s looking pretty fucking dark, even considering the season and the usual Chicago smog, and it’s only two in the afternoon.

It should have been earlier, but he got a text from Ian just before lunch telling him things were taking longer than expected and turns out he wasn’t kidding. Mickey’s on his third smoke and his twenty-second minute, and his umpteenth time of perking up like a fucking dog at the sight of the clinic’s doors sliding open, only to reveal the disappointing shape of someone _other than Ian_ stepping out through them.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s decided to walk in and cause a scene, or maybe just ask someone for information. Or maybe just sit down, get out of the cold wind and take the weight off his feet. It’s logically the same amount of times as he’s decided not to do any of that shit and instead stay by the car, doing nothing.

He huffs out an impatient sigh and plugs the cigarette back in his mouth to keep from gnawing through his lip or changing his mind yet again. Ian asked him to wait outside. He didn’t want Mickey coming with him inside this morning, and it was pretty clear he didn’t want him waiting any closer than the other side of the street when it was over, like a fucking valet. 

Not that Ian actually said as much as all that. In fact, in the twenty minutes they spent together this morning, driving over, all he said was ’thanks’ and ’meet you here after?’. So Mickey can admit his interpretation is both wildly speculative and fairly biased. And if he really thinks about it, it’s more than fucking likely that Ian’s testy mood had more to do with the poison about to be pumped into his veins than Mickey somehow managing to piss him off more than normal.

Either way, it’s fine.

It starts to rain, one drop here and there, he can see them hit the windows of the cars parked on the other side of the street. He can’t feel it yet but he knows it’s just a matter of minutes before he’ll have to either get back in the car or take shelter in the clinic’s waiting room. Or stubbornly stand in the rain and get drenched, it’s an option as valid as any.

But then the doors slide open again and this time the bent head and broad shoulders silhouetted against the inside’s bright tungsten light is deeply familiar. Ian steps outside and stops, the doors sliding shut behind him as he glances heavenward at the leaking sky and then up and down the street, only nodding slightly when he spots Mickey staring back at him from across the road.

He’s got his worn old coat draped over his shoulders, one arm in and the other sleeve hanging empty down his left side. A gust of wind pulls up leaves and shit from the street and when it gets to Ian it flips his coat open, exposing his left arm for a second before he catches the edge of the rebellious lapel and carefully holds it to his chest. 

But it’s too late, Mickey’s already seen it. The bandage wrapped around the crook of his elbow is like a starch white spot against the muddled background, against the grey building, the grey sky, grey skin. Ian seems to feel the way it sticks out and he lingers by the doors for a moment with his hand obscured by the depths of his coat, as it looks like he’s trying his best to fold the sleeve of his maroon henley back down and cover up the tell-tale bandage.

Mickey waits him out for maybe five seconds, before finally making a decision and sticking with it. Taking one last drag off his cigarette he slowly makes his way across the street, checking both ways for traffic, and then ignores the paved path by treading over the narrow lot of dormant flowers framing the worn grass leading up to the clinic’s entrance. Clutching his coat over his arm, Ian starts walking to meet him half way, but stops after only a couple of steps to close his eyes and bend his head.

Frowning and throwing his cigarette aside, Mickey picks up his pace and more or less fucking sprints the rest of the way until he’s reached Ian.

”I’m fine,” Ian huffs before Mickey’s said anything, but his head is still bent and his eyes are still pinched closed in concentration, ”I’m fine.”

Mickey stops a few feet away from him and self-consciously drops the hand that’s almost found its way to grasp Ian by the shoulder, all on its own.

”Yeah, you look fuckin’ awesome,” he snarks and throws a suspicious glance at the closed doors over Ian’s shoulder, ”should I tell someone? We could go back in, you’re supposed to tell ’em if you’re feeling weird, right?”

Ian waves him off, tipping his head back and taking a deep breath, his eyes still closed.

”Told them,” he says on the exhale, ”just woozy, said it’ll pass.”

”Well,” Mickey grunts, ”the sky’s about to fucking drop, so I suggest we move in one direction or another and if it’s not gonna be back inside, how about fuckin’ forwards march, huh?”

”Yep,” Ian breathes out and opens his eyes, jaw set as he takes a step forward and kinda pivots unnaturally, like he’s losing his balance in slow-motion.

Mickey doesn’t hesitate, he quickly moves to Ian’s other side and grabs him by the arm to steady him. 

Ian’s arm is firm and warm under the thick layer of his parka, but it’s also surprisingly pliable when Mickey decides to push his luck and lift it up, ducking his head and fitting himself under it. He more or less expects to be pushed away, but instead Ian lets out a low sigh and leans his weight on him, his arm heavy over Mickey’s shoulders and their sides pressing together. Mickey tries to stand up a little straighter and carefully wraps his arm around Ian’s waist, digging his fingers into the coarse fabric of the coat to keep himself from touching him too much, from hugging them closer together.

”’m good,” Ian mutters and Mickey doesn’t believe him, but rolls his shoulders anyway and slowly starts guiding them down the path and towards the street. It only takes a couple of steps before Ian seems to regain much of his balance, but he leaves his arm hanging on Mickey’s shoulders and his long fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket.

Mickey ignores it and turns his focus to getting them safely across the street, before slipping out of Ian’s grip to leave him to his own devices on the passenger side of the car.

He waits until they’re both inside and Ian’s buckling himself in with slow, sluggish movements, before he turns the ignition and pulls out into the light afternoon traffic.

”Where to, Miss Daisy?” he asks, checking his blind spot and smirking to himself when he hears Ian’s distracted huff at the lame-ass joke.

”Home,” Ian answers with a sigh, ”I guess.”

Mickey tries not to dwell on it, but he can’t help wondering if Ian’s lack of enthusiasm has anything to do with wanting to go somewhere else, to be with _someone_ else. If maybe part of his subdued mood has something to do with longing and heartbreak for this _other guy_. It’s a bitter thought that reminds him of how far Ian has come, while Mickey remains with his heart firmly lodged in the past.

He drives on in silence, taking it slow and easy as the rain doubles in violence and his mind finds itself constantly distracted by a long string of new drafts of the same question. You miss him? You want me to take you to him instead? You wanna talk about it? You think you’ll work it out? You love him?

 _Do you love him?_

Is he better than me? Did you ever-

”So,” Mickey clears his throat, fixing his eyes on the red light as he slows the car down to a stop and _asks_ , for the sake of his own sanity, ”what’s this break bullshit about?”

He can feel Ian looking at him but he doesn’t glance his way. He schools his face into a neutral expression and shifts back into first when the traffic starts moving again, and he waits for Ian to answer, or not. It’s his choice.

It takes a while, but then Ian lets out a low hum. ”Guess break is just half of it.”

”Yeah?” Mickey frowns at Ian’s cryptic-ass answer. ”What’s the other half?”

”Up,” Ian says, matter-of-factly, and it takes a couple of long seconds for Mickey’s brain to put two and two together.

”He broke up with you?” he asks and he can hear his own voice rising slightly, beyond his control.

”Well,” Ian says and Mickey can see him shrug out of the corner of his eye, ”probably wanted to, but no. Cheated on me.”

Mickey kinda hates himself for it, but the bitter bile rises through his chest and the thought flickers through his mind before he can stop it. _That’s rich_ , he thinks, _hope it hurt_.

But he doesn’t, he doesn’t hope it hurt. Partly because he never really wants Ian to hurt, and partly because he’s still kinda hoping this guy never mattered enough to Ian to actually be able to hurt him. Which is kind of a desperate, pathetic hope that he tries to push down along with the bile and jealousy, where it belongs.

Ian huffs out a quick, joyless laugh, obviously thinking about something else. 

”With a chick,” he says, like it’s fucking funny or something, but he’s frowning and staring out at the falling rain when Mickey throws a quick glance his way.

”I fucked plenty of chicks while we were hanging out,” Mickey points out, even though he’s pretty sure Ian doesn’t need reminding.

”Yeah, but not ’cause you liked it,” Ian argues, stating it like a fact, ”that was totally different.”

Mickey’s stumped, mouth open like he wants to say something but his mind a complete blank. Ian’s right, nothing he’s ever done with women has been about _liking it_ , but always about proving a point. To himself, to Ian, to his dad. Or about hurting someone; Ian sometimes but mostly himself. Always himself.

He just never imagined that Ian actually got that, they’d never talked about it. He remembers Ian’s poorly contained jealousy throughout the first couple of years they were hooking up, and the way he seemed to thrum with frustration and sadness when Mickey kept pulling away, drawing lines, building walls.

At some point he must have realized something about Mickey, and accepted it, because here he is and he’s putting his finger on something that Mickey’s barely even thought about, not for several years.

”Caleb’s bi,” Ian continues, and the abrupt shift from his thoughts and the mention of _a name_ is like a bucket of water over Mickey’s head, ”not sayin’ that makes him a cheater, but he never told me he was and when I found out about this chick he tried to make it out like it doesn’t count or some shit, like it’s not stepping out on me just ’cause it’s not with another dude. Gay, bi, whatever, pretty sure that’s not how normal relationships are supposed to work.”

Mickey frowns at his choice of words, but doesn’t pick him up on it. ’Normal’ was probably exactly what Ian’d been looking for with this guy, and it’s gotta sting a little to realize that it’s already falling apart. That infidelity is well fucking contained within the realms of ’normal’, and that it fucking sucks to be on the receiving end of that particular stick.

Mickey makes a noise, raising an eyebrow at Ian through the rear-view mirror. ”Not sure you’ve got such a high fucking horse to sit on when it comes to this shit.”

Ian meets his eyes briefly, steady and tired, the deep set lines looking even darker through the mirrored glass.

”It’s different,” he says, once Mickey has looked away, ”we had an understanding.”

”Right,” Mickey scoffs, ”an understanding. What’s that? That you could go fuck whoever you liked, and I just had to deal?”

”No,” Ian sighs, his voice firm and defiant, but his mouth tense and sad when Mickey glances at him, ”that none of that shit mattered at the end of the day, that we did our best, that you and me was the bottom line. Shit was the way it was but that didn’t mean we didn’t have…”

Ian slows down and takes a breath, like he hasn’t talked this much in a year or something, and especially not about _this_. Mickey kinda knows the feeling.

”What?” he prompts, because as much as he wants to roll his eyes and call bullshit, he also thinks he’s been waiting a really long time to hear this, to understand what happened.

”Loyalty,” Ian decides, and then with much less conviction; ”love. A fucking understanding.”

Mickey swallows down the desire to argue, and ask how much loyalty and love there’d been when Ian decided to stop fighting for them, for Mickey.

”Didn’t have that with this guy?” he asks instead.

”Please,” Ian scoffs, ”only been with him for five months, wasn’t like that at all. But he liked to tell me I was doing everything wrong all the time, loved showing me how it was supposed to be done. Dates and sex and all that stuff, made me think what I had with him was like… some kinda ’real’ relationship. A mature relationship where we talked about shit and did things the right way, whatever the fuck that means.”

This guy is not growing in Mickey’s estimation, that’s for fucking sure. He sounds like a real douche, Mickey’s obvious bias aside. It’s nice, it’s nice to know Ian isn’t terribly sad about his fresh breakup, and it’s surprisingly nice to hear him talking this much about it. Ian never liked to talk about his private business, or talk shit about other people, but sometimes even he needed to vent and, back when they’d been good, Mickey’d always been the one he turned to in order to do just that. 

”Whatever,” Ian sighs again, an almost embarrassed tilt to his voice when he continues, ”not like I expected him to stick around through all this… just thought he’d be man enough to actually break up with me instead of pulling all this crap. Cheating and pulling away and telling me he did it ’cause I’m sick and he can’t deal.”

Mickey grips the wheel and clenches his teeth.

”He said that?”

”Pretty much,” Ian hums, and he doesn’t sound nearly as upset about it as Mickey’s feeling right now, ”I mean I get it, it’s too much. He has his own shit to deal with and I never wanted him to-”

”Don’t do that,” Mickey cuts him off, shaking his head and scowling at Ian through the mirror.

”What?” Ian frowns, meeting his eyes for a second before Mickey has to look away again, turning his focus to the slow progression of the drenched traffic outside.

”Fuckin’…” Mickey lets go of the wheel with one hand to wave it through the air, looking for the right words, ”defend him.”

Mickey can practically hear his dumbass ex blink in surprise. ”Okay.”

”Okay,” Mickey repeats, letting out a slow breath, ”guy’s obviously a fuckin’ cunt and if he wanna go off and dyke it up with some other pussy, let him. He’s not worth your time and you shouldn’t buy any of his fuckin’ excuses. ’Too much’, fuck that shit, no way takin’ care of someone you’re supposed to love is ’too much’, what the fuck.”

Okay, so now he’s just ranting, and _maybe_ projecting just a tiny bit, but he can’t help it. Ian doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the absently fond smile he’s got playing on his lips when Mickey glances his way.

”Can’t hold ’em to your standards, Mick,” he says, and Mickey would think he’s kidding if he didn’t sound so serious, ”won’t work, unless I wanna die alone.”

”Ey, don’t fuckin’ talk like that,” Mickey immediately objects to the flippant statement, before trying to get in on the joke and cover up his embarrassing first reaction, ”we can’t all be Cadillacs, man, don’t mean you gotta settle for a fucking Fiat.”

Ian snorts, the sound muffled when Mickey sees him in the corner of his eye, hiding his face in his hands and rubbing it roughly before slumping down in his seat and resting his head back, throat bared.

Mickey swallows and promptly turns his focus back to his driving, not interested in feeling any kinda old stirring at the sight of his ex’s pale neck and open vulnerability. He feels like a fucking vampire, blood revving to go just from being close to Ian again, skin prickling in anticipation.

He feels magnetic around Ian, he always has. That isn’t the problem, the problem is that somewhere along the line Ian got demagnetized. Hands and eyes and lips turned to metal, a once teeming highway turned into a one-way fucking street of hopeless desire and invisible pull.

Not that it matters right now, it’s a small, petty problem next to what Ian’s going through.

”Hey?” Mickey checks when Ian’s had his eyes closed for several minutes, his brow a little too furrowed to really sell the idea that he has dozed off. ”You okay?”

Ian doesn’t open his eyes, he just hugs his crossed arms closer to himself and lets out a low sigh.

”Hate being home,” he mutters, answering a very different question than the ’do you need to barf?’ variety Mickey’d been aiming for, ”feel like I’m gonna die there.”

Mickey feels himself grow cold, but keeps his eyes on the road and waits for Ian to continue, to tell him what he means by that. Why he no longer feels safe in the house he’s always been so unreasonably attached to. He wants to know what Ian needs, what he wants, how he feels. What Mickey can do to help, if anything.

But Ian doesn’t say anything more, not for several long minutes and Mickey thinks he probably should drop it. But then he has an idea – an undeniably stupid yet obviously simple idea – and try as he might he can’t shut it down. It vibrates through his mind until it seems like the only logical option, like he has no choice.

”You know,” he says, giving it another second of lip-gnawing thought before resolutely ignoring the flashing ’do not cross’ sign wailing through the back of his mind, ”Mandy’s not been home for a while now.”

”She okay?” Ian mumbles, clearly not picking up on what Mickey’s getting at.

”Yeah, yeah,” Mickey kinda dismisses the question, not entirely willing to let Ian know just how long it’s been since he last checked up on his sister, ”point is her room’s empty.”

Ian sighs, eyes still closed when Mickey stops at a red light and turns to look at him, letting his gaze rest on him and fully take him in this time. 

”I miss her too.”

”Gallagher,” Mickey huffs, making sure his voice is pointed enough and his staring is incisive enough to get Ian to react; cracking his eyes open and tilting his head to the side to look at him, ”tryna tell ya you can come home with me, man, if you want.”

Ian stares at him for a second, eyes wide and inscrutable, and then he nods, once, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow.

Someone honks behind them and Mickey tears his eyes off Ian to notice the whole intersection lit up in green and cars moving around them. He starts driving, happy to distract himself with anything that isn’t instant regret. Or intense relief.

”I can’t,” Ian says, ”I don’t wanna-, you got…”

”What?” Mickey scoffs when Ian bites off all the endings of his reluctant backpedaling.

”You got your own life now,” he argues, firmly, ”I’d just fuck it up.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and makes the left turn on to North Wallace.

”Not asking you to fuckin’ move in, Eeyore,” he says as they steadily sail past Ian’s house and further down the street, ”just a change of scenery or whatever, like a short break. Not gonna do shit to my life havin’ you convalescing in the other room for a week.”

”What about your boyfriend,” Ian asks, ”don’t wanna put a strain on your relationship.”

Mickey bites his lip and holds back a curse. Jamie. Shit. He fucking _forgot_. 

They had a lunch date planned for today, Mickey was supposed to meet up with him after driving Ian back home but with all the delays and shit he’s most likely _hours_ past late already. He hasn’t checked his phone since Ian texted him before lunch, and he most definitely forgot to let his boyfriend know that he needed to cancel their plans.

”Don’t worry about it,” he says and winces, he’s probably up for some heavy-duty groveling later tonight, ”Jay’s cool, he gets it.”

”Oh,” Ian breathes out, turning away to watch the houses roll past them as Mickey turns onto his own street, ”okay.”

”Okay,” Mickey decides and parks outside his house, turning the ignition off and pulling the hand break before he settles in to watch Ian as he stares up at the Milkovich residence.

”Maybe just for the night,” Ian all but whispers, like he’s trying to convince himself, ”just a break.”

Considering it a done deal, Mickey gets out and walks around the car to quickly sprint through the rain and up on the porch, into shelter. He doesn’t look, but he hears the passenger door open and close behind him as he digs out his keys and unlock the house, pulling open the front door and stepping aside just in time to see Ian climb the concrete steps.

Mickey raises his eyebrows at Ian’s slow movements, unsure if he’s just tired of if he’s still hesitant about the whole, sudden arrangement. But when Mickey gestures impatiently for him to go ahead, Ian ducks his head and walks inside without any further fuss.

”Mi casa, su casa,” Mickey mutters, mostly to have _something_ to say, and follows suit.

They don’t talk. Ian stands in the middle of Mickey’s chaotic living room with his coat still on and arms wrapped around himself, absently taking in the plastic sheets draped over the couch and paint-stained paper covering the hardwood floors. Mickey leaves him be and goes into his bedroom to dig through his closet in search of a set of freshly cleaned sheets, which he takes with him into Mandy’s room.

He pulls the curtains aside and opens the window, the air still and stale in there. He unmakes the bed and tears off the sheets that haven’t been changed since before Mandy took off, and then makes it again with the fresh set. They’re his sheets, old and worn and soft to the touch after years of use. They smell of his detergent and the bleached print changes the whole room into something not quite Mandy’s, not quite his. Guess it’s Ian’s now, for a short while.

The sheets are Ian’s too. Mickey’s not into the whole _buying new shit_ thing, not until the old shit’s non-functional and beyond repair, so he’s pretty sure that Ian has spent his fair share of nights wrapped up in these sheets. 

Mickey vaguely remembers the night he went to bed and realized for the first time that Ian’s pillow no longer smelled like him.

He closes the window again when he’s done, struggling a little to get the thing sealed shut properly when he suddenly feels Ian’s presence in the room. Hands still on the window’s finicky handle, he twists just enough to glance over his shoulder and spot Ian lingering in the doorway.

”Nothin’ fucking works in this damn house,” he complains, like some kinda explanation, and gives the window another half-hearted shove. Whatever, it’s closed well enough.

”Don’t mind,” Ian tells him, eyes heavy and tired when Mickey gives up and turns around to look at him properly.

Ian looks away, lips pressing together and jaw set as he slowly moves into the bedroom and shrugs off his damp coat, drapes it over the back of Mandy’s old desk chair. Then, like he’s forgotten that Mickey’s still in there, he gingerly reaches back with his good arm and grabs at the neck of his henley, pulling it over his head in one slow movement.

He suddenly seems more naked than Mickey ever remembers seeing him. The white tank he’s wearing under the maroon shirt rides up to his ribs, the bulky bandage around his left arm is no longer hidden, his dark blue beanie almost comes all the way off, revealing more of his deliberately shaved head.

And all Mickey wants is to put his hands on him. Push the beanie back down, smooth out his shirt, skim his fingertips over the bandage, ghost his lips over every inch of his skin.

But Ian doesn’t need him to do any of that shit, he drops the henley to the floor and readjusts the beanie, tugs at the tank until it covers his pale, soft stomach. He’s skinnier than Mickey’s ever seen him, softer too. His hard muscles flattened out into inviting, pliable flesh. 

He climbs into the bed and sighs as he lies down, a pained frown crowning his forehead as he stretches out and then curls up on his right side, pulling the covers up to his shoulder.

”You want anything?” Mickey asks, and he thinks his voice sounds surprisingly steady.

”No,” Ian mumbles, eyes still closed.

Mickey hesitates for a moment, hands hanging uselessly down his sides as he looks around the room for ideas of what he should do, for a reason to linger just a bit longer.

”Alright,” he says, finding nothing, ”that’s fine, get some rest.”

He’s almost all the way out the room when he thinks of something, turning in the doorway and pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.

”I’ll just-,” he says, dropping his hand when he realizes that Ian can’t see him, ”I’ma step outside for a sec, I’ll be back in half an hour, tops. You gonna be okay?”

Ian doesn’t say anything, which Mickey decides to interpret as a ’yes’, or a ’stop hovering’, or a ’get the fuck out and leave me alone’. All three fair enough, if correct.

The rain has slowed down to a drizzle when Mickey steps outside. So he lights up a cigarette and smokes it while walking the short stretch to Ian’s house, glaring up at it from the gate for a second before walking around it and going directly for the back door, throwing the butt of his cigarette out onto the damp, unkempt lawn.

The door is locked, which Mickey takes more as a good sign than an obstacle as he quickly picks the lock and thinks he’ll be able to do this thing without having to interact with any of his old ghetto in-laws. Jury’s still out on his whole _good luck_ thing though, ’cause he only makes it to the living room before he bumps into Carl, sprawled out on the sofa and watching some kinda B-movie office drama that’s most likely gonna end up spread eagle on the photocopier.

The little shit doesn’t even pause his fucking porn when he looks up and sees Mickey come in, he just sits up straighter and takes his hand out of his pants.

”Ian’s not here,” he says, and if he’s surprised that Mickey’s decided to break into his house he sure hides it well.

”I know,” Mickey nods, glancing at the stairs before turning back to scowl at Ian’s little brother, ”he’s gonna stay with me for a while.”

Carl doesn’t even raise an eyebrow at this pretty fucking remarkable piece of news.

”I’m getting some of his shit,” Mickey explains, rubbing at his bottom lip before gesturing towards the stairs.

Not getting any kind of immediate resistance to the idea, Mickey leaves Carl to his business and takes to the stairs, purposefully stomping up to the second floor and beelining straight for the old boys’ room.

”Christ,” he mutters, pushing the door open. 

It’s musky and dark in there, the blinds shut and curtains drawn but light still somehow manages to find its way inside, cutting pale streaks of white through the slow-moving dust filling the stale air. Ian’s old bed is a mess, sheets stained with sweat and fuck knows what else, bunched up in the middle of the mattress like he’s been thrashing around in his sleep and not cared enough to straighten it out when he’s awake. The floor is littered with cups of half-drunk mugs of tea, plates with old toast crust and blobs of jam, and clothes in crumpled piles mixed up with used paper towels.

No wonder Ian felt like he was dying in here.

Mickey risks looking under the bed and finds Ian’s old duffle bag, then he carefully starts rifling through the piles of clothes, picking out items he knows belong to Ian and that he likes to wear. He doesn’t overdo it, just a couple of sweats and some tanks and boxers, one or two t-shirts and Ian’s favorite sweater. He can borrow some more shit from Mickey if he really needs it.

”Are you guys back together?”

He hadn’t realized that Carl had followed him upstairs until he hears him speak, and he turns to see him leaning in the doorway, causal as fuck.

”No,” Mickey mutters and gingerly picks up a pair of crusty boxers between his thumb and pointer finger, quickly shoving them down the bag. He’s gonna need to wash all of this, anyway.

”I tried to help him,” Carl tells him, his intense stare locked on Mickey when he stops packing and turns to face him properly.

”Sure,” Mickey doesn’t want to argue, it’s not Carl’s fucking responsibility anyway, he shouldn’t feel guilty about any of this shit, ”I believe you, kid.”

”I shaved his head,” Carl frowns, ”I don’t think it helped.”

”Hey,” Mickey tries to reassure him, shrugging at how useless he knows it’s gonna sound, ”I’m sure it did, he knows you care about him.”

Carl nods, and straightens up like he’s ready to go in for a hug when Mickey moves closer. It doesn’t click with Mickey that this is what the kid is expecting until he’s already moved past him and out into the corridor, heading for the bathroom. He feels a little bad about it.

”He’s young,” he tries to compensate for his lack of physical tenderness by throwing some reassuring statistics at the kid, instead, raising his voice as he walks into the bathroom and opens the cabinet over the sink, ”and strong, and they caught it early. All the numbers are in his favor.”

”I’m glad he’s got you,” Carl says behind him, as Mickey studies the contents of the fucking pharmacy the Gallaghers have got set up in their bathroom, ”someone should take care of him.”

”Yeah well,” Mickey mutters and picks up one of the bottles, twisting it around to read the label, ”your bonehead brother doesn’t want anyone takin’ care of him.”

”Doesn’t mean no one should,” Carl argues, and he’s not fucking wrong, ”no one does here, just let him take care of himself.”

”And he’s doing a bang-up job,” Mickey comments drily, dropping the bottle down his bag and then shrugging before holding it up and effectively tipping everything down there that doesn’t specifically have someone else’s name on it.

”You think he’s gonna die?” Carl asks, and he sounds much younger than he looks these days, running around the streets in his little dress-me-up gangster getup. 

He probably sounds just about his actual fucking age, if Mickey really thinks about it.

”No,” Mickey says and closes the cabinet back up, pulling the string on the duffle to secure it as he turns around and raises his eyebrows at the kid, ”I’m gonna take care of him now, you think I’d let him die?”

Carl stares at him for a second, and then his lips pull up in a brief, genuine smile. The kid is a fuckin’ sociopath, Ian’s told Mickey enough stories from his childhood to quench any and all doubt about that, but he’s still a _good kid_. Fiercely loyal and surprisingly gentle-hearted, Mickey thinks Carl understands the concept of family better than most. He knows why Mickey is doing this for Ian right now, and he’s not even stopping to question it for as much as a second.

They leave the bathroom and Mickey figures that’s that when Carl disappears back inside the boys’ bedroom and leaves him to climb down the stairs on his own. But he’s only made it to the back door when he hears quick, heavy steps down the kitchen stairs and Carl skids into the room, clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

”Here,” he says, a little out of breath, as he walks closer and holds out the paper, ”he likes this one.”

Mickey takes it and looks at it. It’s a drawing of a group of people he vaguely recognizes as the whole Gallagher clan, if only because of the tuft of fiery hair on Ian’s stick figure, the long mess of red signifying Debbie next to him, and the significantly darker shade of the stick figure standing in the middle of the group. He sincerely hopes Liam drew this, but he doesn’t ask.

”Thanks,” he says instead. Carl nods, lips pressed together in a brave smile.

Mickey doesn’t hug him, but he grabs his head by the embarrassing fucking cornrows and kisses him lightly on the forehead, like he’s seen Ian do many times before. Then he grabs Ian’s stuff and leaves.

Someone’s standing on his porch when Mickey gets back to the house. He can see someone there all the way from the end of the street, but he doesn’t light up a cigarette until he’s close enough to realize who it is.

Jamie looks pissed. Mickey thinks he’s never actually seen him look pissed before.

”Jay-,” he starts as he’s pushing through the gate, cigarette clamped between his lips.

”He’s in there?” Jamie asks, but Mickey thinks he probably already knows the answer to that question. ”Don’t bother denying it, Svetlana let me in, I’ve seen him.”

Mickey frowns and remains at the bottom of the stairs, dropping the bag down on the still damp concrete before removing the cigarette from his lips and peering up at his boyfriend.

”Not denying it,” Mickey tells him, smoke billowing out his nose and mouth as he speaks, ”he needed somewhere to stay, I got room.”

”You seriously thought I’d be okay with that?” Jamie asks, his eyebrows bunching up into a sad expression.

”Got nothing to do with you,” Mickey argues, realizing it’s probably not the right thing to say when he sees anger blazing through his boyfriend’s eyes.

”Wow,” he says, chuckling wetly and throwing his hands up as he turns his back to Mickey, bending his head.

Mickey sighs and throws his cigarette away, slowly stepping up on the porch and holding out a hand to gently touch it to Jamie’s tense shoulder.

”Hey,” he says, happy to see he’s not being shrugged off, ”it’s not like that, you know it’s not like that.”

Jamie sighs, shaking his head. ”Then what’s it like?”

”He’s sick, Jay,” Mickey says, trying his hardest not to sound like he thinks it’s stupid that Jamie seems to need the reminder, ”he’s family.”

”No,” Jamie huffs and turns around, Mickey’s hand slipping off him when he takes a step back, ”that’s just it, he’s not! He’s your fucking ex, Mickey!”

”Fuck you!” Mickey spits before he can stop himself, holding out a hand as a kind of silent apology. ”Ian’s been there for me in ways you can’t even fuckin’ imagine, you don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do right now, not when it comes to him.”

”He dumped you!” Jamie argues, eyes wide.

Mickey groans and tips his head back, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He really could do without this right now.

”Why? Why are you doing this? I got the first time, and again this morning, I got it. You’re a good person and of course you care about him, I get it, but this is too much.”

Mickey shakes his head and feels his face scrunch up in disbelief as he listens to his boyfriend’s absurd line of questioning.

”You don’t know shit about it,” Mickey accuses him, something hard creeping into his voice that he can’t shake, ”without him, I’d be-”

”What?” Jamie goads when Mickey hesitates. ”What?”

Mickey doesn’t even know. He can’t separate the person he is now from falling in love with Ian.

”I’d be locked up, for one,” he says instead, going for the most recent, obvious thing he can think of, ”fuckin’ wired up his bitch half sister to a car battery and almost killed her, and you know what they did when I got arrested for it?”

He presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows in challenge when Jamie looks too shocked to even try and guess.

”Him and his whole fuckin’ horde of siblings showed up at the station and lied through their fucking teeth for me,” Mickey hisses at him, knowing he shouldn’t fucking say any of this but at the same time really fucking tired of having this conversation with someone who clearly doesn’t get it, ”could’ve been rotting in there for fifteen years but I’m not, ’cause him and me are family and that doesn’t fucking stop just ’cause he don’t love me anymore.”

Pulling in a shaky breath, Jamie wipes angrily at the stray tear leaking from his wet eyes with the back of his hand.

”You still love him,” he says, and Mickey is slightly taken aback by how much it _isn’t_ a question.

So he doesn’t answer. Denying it would be pointless, and confirming it would just be cruel.

”It doesn’t matter,” he says instead, voice a lot softer now as he holds up his hands and moves closer, taking Jamie by the arms when he doesn’t try to get away, ”he doesn’t love me, so nothing’s gonna happen. I just wanna make sure he’s alright, it’s just for a week. Then he’ll be back in his own house and out of my life.”

”But you don’t want that,” Jamie sighs and doesn’t meet Mickey’s eyes when he frowns at him.

”Fuck you talking about?” Mickey asks.

”You love him,” Jamie repeats, like a broken fucking record.

”So?” Mickey tries, desperate to get Jamie to see this thing his way. ”Got nothing to do with you and me, man, it doesn’t matter.”

”Mickey,” Jamie sighs and finally looks him in the eye, picking up a hand to touch it gently to Mickey’s cheek, ”it’s the _only_ thing that matters.”

Then he fucking smiles, just a tug of his lips until it falls back into a sad frown, and pats Mickey’s cheek once before moving out of his grip and walking down the still wet concrete steps.

”Don’t call me,” he says without turning around, as he walks through the gate and disappears down the street.

Mickey stares after him for a long time, mouth agape at first and then forming around a long string of garbled curses as he paces the porch and aims a couple of kicks at whatever catches his eye. He didn’t want this to happen, but he’s not terribly surprised. He’s most of all not sorry, if Jamie can’t deal with Ian’s goddamned health being a priority over their budding fucking relationship, then likely is it wasn’t gonna last very long anyway.

He feels the sting of failure, for sure, but honestly not much more than that. His bruised ego aside, it’s pretty fucking clear to him that he doesn’t have the time to throw some kinda pity party right now, anyway, so pushing his feelings down he grabs Ian’s bag and heads inside.

Ian is asleep in his room, back still to the door. Mickey watches him for a good minute before he moves further inside the house. Svetlana must have gotten home while Mickey was at Ian’s house, she steps out of the kitchen with Yevgeny clung to her hip as Mickey is carefully closing Ian’s door behind himself.

She doesn’t say anything, but the fucking look she throws across the room makes it pretty goddamned clear how she feels about his latest run of decisions. He ignores her and makes a silly face at his son as he sidesteps them on his way to the kitchen.

He does Ian’s laundry and he makes him a sandwich, leaves the plate on his nightstand as he sleeps, and then spends the rest of the evening hanging out with Yevgeny once Svetlana has left for her shift at the Alibi.

Bitch can throw him all the judgmental looks she wants, it doesn’t matter, Mickey can’t imagine this day ending in any other way than exactly like this. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do, and there’s no way in hell he could have left Ian high and dry when he knew he’s got both the means and the ability to help. Even if it’s just for now, and even if it won’t change anything for them in the long run.

Mickey doesn’t expect any of this to work out in his favor, he doesn’t expect to worm his way back into Ian’s life or somehow reignite their burnt out relationship by doing any of this. Even if that was his plan, he’d have to be pretty fucking stupid to expect it to work considering how Ian broke up with him last time; calling Mickey his nurse and telling him to dial the fuck back on the tender love and care. Clocked him in the face and called him a faggot.

No, Mickey doesn’t expect shit, but he knows what he needs to do. Ian is sick and Ian needs to get better, and Mickey is pretty sure he would sell his fucking soul to the devil himself to make it happen.

Never mind burn his whole fucking life down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [koganphrancis](http://koganphrancis.tumblr.com/), the Cadillac of Ian/Mickey blogs ❤


	4. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for chapter 4: use of a medical syringe and mentions of nausea, malnourishment, infection, and fever.

March 17  
_ _ _ _ _

 

There’s spring in the air. That’s something people say, right? Mickey isn’t all clear on what the fuck they mean when they say it, but the sorry excuse for a lawn outside his house has turned a shade of brighter green, the birds are a-chirping, and Danny’s up to an almost daily rant about the ’motherfucking trees’ and how they’re personally plotting to kill him. So he’d wager to say the air is jam-packed full of springy things. Earlier mornings and longer evenings, fucking sunshine and flowers and critters crawling outta their hibernation to bang and eat and most likely bang some more. Life slowly returning after a long-ass winter.

Mickey’s never given blooming spring much thought before – maybe when he was a kid and Terry hadn’t yet started smacking him around for noticing that kinda girly shit – but he sure does think about it now. It’s nice, it feels like something normal that he’s somehow managed to ignore for some fifteen years, something that suddenly makes a whole lot of sense. 

There was a time he was sure nothing would ever change for him, that he had no choice but to deal with the status quo of fucked for life he’d accepted the second he stumbled into adolescence and realized how truly and irrevocably screwed he was. So, guess it kinda felt like a small miracle when things actually _did_ end up changing, good times and bad chasing each other down and taking over his life in waves. 

Mickey isn’t entirely sure which kinda wave he’s got pulling him down this time but that’s okay, he doesn’t really care. 

Because today is a _good day_.

He throws away the end of his cigarette and stomps up the porch stairs, breathing out all the smoke in his lungs as he’s pushing the door open and stepping inside. Absently kicking off his slightly too warm boots and shoving them off to passably line up with the rest of the shoes, he makes his way through the vestibule and into the living room just in time to see a butt-naked Yevgeny running out the kitchen, heading for the bedrooms.

Which is most likely _not_ where he’s supposed to be going, judging by the long run of Russian scolding following him from the kitchen, or by the way his mother’s words only make Yevgeny giggle louder.

”Whoa there, Usain,” Mickey huffs and manages to intercept the naked escapee just as he runs past, squealing happily and clinging to him when Mickey stoops down to pick him up in his arms, ”slow the fuck down for a sec, where you going?”

”Yev _geny_ ,” Svetlana shouts from the kitchen, ”get back in here, _right now!_ ”

”I got him!” Mickey yells back, rolling his eyes as his still giggling kid grabs at his cheeks and mouth, like he’s trying to gag him and keep him from compromising their position. ”On the lam, huh? I got you, man, don’t sweat it. I won’t rat you out.”

”Rat!” Yevgeny decides and tries to squirm out of Mickey’s grip, laughing when Mickey hoists him up to sit more securely in his arms, hooking the crook of his elbow under his butt.

”Christ,” Mickey mutters and snorts at his son’s infectious glee, ”fuck you naked for, anyway? Been gone for less than twenty minutes and I come home to a fuckin’ nudist colony.”

”Aks-dent,” Yevgeny says, distracted by some loose threads on Mickey’s forcibly sleeveless shirt.

”That right?” Mickey commiserates as he starts walking them through the house, heading for the main bathroom. ”Well, shit happens I guess.”

Grinning at his own choice of words when Yevgeny leaves him hanging, Mickey carries the kid over to the old changing station shoved in between the sink and the shower. Another lifetime ago, Ian had borrowed the rickety piece of shit from home and then it just so happened that no one ever bothered giving back. It’s not like the Gallaghers really need it anymore, anyway. Maybe Mickey should have offered Debbie to come pick it up when he realized she got knocked up – and then kicked out, to boot – but whatever. She could’ve come knocking if it was a big deal.

They mostly use it for storage now, when Yevgeny is a little too big to feel safe on the thing, and they like to lay down towels on the ground or on a couch whenever they need to do a more thorough job. It’s not like Yevgeny stays still long enough to get cleaned up like that, anyway, running around and doing things at his own speed regardless of his parents’ insistence he chill out or follow their lead. Independent, Mickey thinks might be the word for the little shit, and fuck it if he doesn’t love the kid even more for it.

”Here,” he says as he grabs a fresh diaper from the bag and takes a knee next to Yevgeny, holding out the padded underwear between them, ”step.”

Yevgeny grabs on to Mickey’s arm as he awkwardly lifts his little legs one at a time to step into the diaper, grinning proudly when he has managed the whole balancing act without falling on his ass.

”Kid genius,” Mickey comments drily, but can’t help smiling right back all the same as he pulls up the diaper and gently pats his son’s padded butt, ”you wanna get dressed too?”

”Spidey!” Yevgeny claps his hands together once in excitement when Mickey only grins wider and nods, spreading his arms for the kid to step closer and hang on when he stands up, hugging Yevgeny to his side.

”Over the bowtie and frills already, huh?” He asks as they walk back through the house, towards the room Yevgeny shares with his mom. ”I hear ya, little man. I’d be rockin’ the PJs all day too, if only Danny wasn’t such a hard-ass stickler for protocol.”

”If only, if only,” Yevgeny chirps in this kinda oddly melancholic, sing-song tone. Mickey sets him down on Svetlana’s bed and busies himself by rummaging through her closet as he lets his thoughts wander and a melody starts to slowly piece itself together in his mind.

”Here we go,” he mutters as he pulls out the off-color knockoff Spider-Man romper they’d got from the dollar store a few months ago. He’s pretty sure the thing is meant to be a Halloween costume, and that’s why they were practically handing them out in November, but Yevgeny instantly decided it was an absolute necessity for him to wear it in order to fall asleep. The kid likely won’t accept anything else until the cheap romper literally starts bursting at the seams. 

”Spidey-Man, Spidey-Man!” Yevgeny sings, changing his tune, flopping down on his back and kicking up his legs so Mickey can fit his feet into the costume. ”Does ever Spidey-Man can.”

”Sure, buddy,” Mickey absentmindedly agrees, guiding the kid’s pliant arms through the sleeves and buttoning up the front while Yevgeny plows through another couple of verses of the song, most of which seem to have been translated into his own half Russian, half English nonsense language. 

Mickey helps him off the bed when they’re done and Yevgeny takes off the second his feet makes contact with the floor, his little arms working furiously as he giggles and waddles out the room, feet thumping across the hardwood. Mickey follows him, trying not to think about all the extra sugar they’re about to let the tiny bundle of energy stuff inside his already fully loaded battery of a body.

”-it look good?” Closing in on the kitchen, Mickey can hear Svetlana talking over the low mumble of the radio. ”Is it straight?”

”You’re asking me?” Ian huffs and side-eyes Mickey when he walks in the room, lips quirking up in a hint of a smirk before he looks back over at Svetlana by the counter, carefully icing the sides of a small, round cake. ”It looks fine, Svet.”

”Fine is not perfect,” Svetlana ignores his assurance and runs the spatula over the edge of the cake, elbow working as she smoothes it out, ”did you get it?”

”’Course I fucking got it,” Mickey walks over to her, pulling out the only slightly flattened package from the back pocket of his jeans, ”twenty-four of the little fuckers. Gonna last us until he’s six, so I guess that’s something.”

He throws down the packet of birthday candles next to the cake and in a moment of poor self-preservation decides to poke the hornet’s nest by swiping the tip of his finger through the cake’s carefully plained frosting. It earns him a hiss and a sharp slap over the back of his hand, but stepping away and quickly sucking the frosting off his finger he considers it a win. Gotta risk some to win some, he always says, even when the risk is his balls and the win is just a sample of something he’s gonna get a whole slice of later, anyway.

”Still don’t know the point of all this,” he says, wiping off his finger on the hem of his already pretty dirty shirt as he walks over to the fridge, ”like the cake says; kid’s two years old, he doesn’t know fuck all about candles or any of this stupid shit.”

He grabs a beer and shoves the fridge door shut behind himself, twisting the cap off and gesturing with the bottle towards a couple of sad balloons dangling down from the kitchen lamp. Leaning back against the counter, he ignores Svetlana’s disapproving tut and takes a long swig of his beer, baring his teeth as he swallows and discreetly lets his eyes linger on Ian’s turned face.

He was doing dishes when Mickey left, smiling at something Yevgeny was babbling about, nodding like any of the toddler’s nonsense actually made some kinda sense to him. He’s sitting down now, which is fair enough after a whole day of low-key birthday activities ending with dinner and a home-made cake, but Mickey knows all the signs; he can see the stress and the pain creeping up and slowing the other man down. The bags under his eyes seem darker when he isn’t smiling, his already pale skin looks ashen in contrast with Mickey’s old dirt-brown sweater, hanging off his bony shoulders.

It’s been a month since Mickey offered Ian to move in, but it feels like it’s been no time at all. Falling into the motions of their old domestic patterns, with only a couple of minor, obvious adjustments. Their kid is older – two damned years old today and already running rings around his old man – and their once hot and heavy relationship has been replaced by some kinda courteous cohabitation.

Mickey both really fucking hates it, and can’t bear the thought of letting it go again. He knows he gotta, this charade should’ve ended a couple of weeks ago already, but it’s working so far so good and Mickey never liked the idea of shaking shit up just for the sake of it. Life does enough of that for him, without his help.

”Hey-, hey!” Mickey complains when Yevgeny starts doing actual laps of the kitchen, crashing into the back of his mother’s legs before steadying himself and taking off again. ”Jesus, you seriously planning on shoving more sugar into this guy?”

He puts his beer down and lunges at Yevgeny when he’s close enough, picking him up and pretending to throw him across the room before tightening his grip and heaving the squealing kid over his shoulder, patting him on the butt when he feels his little hands gripping the fabric of his shirt and stretching it down his shoulder blades.

”It’s his birthday,” Ian says, and he’s got a tired smile pulling at the corners of his mouth when Mickey turns to raise his eyebrows at him. Ian doesn’t look up, pointedly keeping his eyes on Yevgeny’s feet where they’re tickling Mickey over the ribs as the kid is trying to find some purchase to wriggle his way out of the fireman’s carry.

”Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Mickey drawls, blindly grabbing on to Yevgeny’s middle to pull him down his chest and turn him right side up again before all his blood flows to his head or he ends up barfing down Mickey’s back, ”not like he’s gonna remember any of this shit, anyway.”

”Guess not,” Ian shrugs, still not quite looking Mickey in the face as he absently lifts a hand to scratch at the inside of his left elbow, ”but _you_ will.”

”Cake’s done!” Svetlana announces behind them, and Yevgeny almost twists out of Mickey’s arms when she carefully carries the plate past them, his wide eyes stuck to the two bright flames dancing on top of the candles stuck down the frosting.

”Alright,” Mickey huffs and readjusts his grip on the kid, bringing him in closer to press a kiss to his temple, ”wanna sit with Ian?”

Eyes still stuck on the cake, Yevgeny absently nods his approval. Mickey nuzzles his nose into the soft hairs on the side of his head and very deliberately doesn’t look over at Ian, but it doesn’t matter. He feels his eyes on him, almost as wide as Yevgeny’s, and can imagine his mouth falling open as though he wants to argue. Or maybe thinks he should argue, but _wants_ something else entirely.

Mickey isn’t looking to give him the chance, so he carries Yevgeny over to him and carefully sets the kid down on his lap. Steeling himself for an argument, he finally looks up to lock eyes with Ian only to feel his frown melt away at the sight of his thankful nod and the way he gingerly hugs his arms around Yevgeny to keep him steady.

His immune system has been shot to hell from the chemo, and even though they’ve kept Yevgeny’s exposure to other kids to a minimum since Ian moved in they’ve still taken some extra precautions to make sure Ian isn’t gonna catch something to set him back. Kids and their perpetually snotty noses don’t mix well with recovering cancer patients, so Yevgeny has been on strict orders not to go into Ian’s room and whatever time they get to spend together has been marred by rules and caution.

It’s been harder on Ian than on Yevgeny to maintain that kinda distance, Mickey has no doubts about that, to the point where it’s almost painful to watch the way the guy stares after the kid he once claimed as marginally his own – his torn emotions writ large over his face when he thinks no one’s looking.

”It’s his birthday,” Mickey mutters as a half-assed excuse and turns away to sit down at the other end of the table, putting Svetlana and some distance between himself and the shiny sincerity in Ian’s big eyes, following his movements as Mickey escapes and tries to avoid making a big deal out of a small thing. Ian closes his eyes and bends his head to gently press a kiss to Yevgeny’s temple as Svetlana sings him some kinda shitty depressing Russian birthday song.

The kid is still grinning though, so Mickey’s just gonna go ahead and assume that it’s less of a downer if you actually know the language.

And Ian’s stopped scratching at his damned bandage, so Mickey can relax and focus on his pretty fucking adorable kid puffing up his cheeks and filling his lungs for all his might, before sputtering air and saliva all over the cake until the two candles flicker and go out. They watch the thin tendrils of smoke swirl over the cake and cheer, and Ian hugs Yevgeny just a little bit closer when the kid claps his hands together in excitement.

Mickey stands up to serve the cake, pulling out the candles before cutting out a thin slice which he transfers to the first plate, giving it to Svetlana so she can pass it along to Ian. He has to bite his lip not to say anything about all the germs he imagines crawling across the frosting after Yevgeny’s enthusiastic blowing, but just glancing at Ian makes it obvious that he doesn’t have to worry. Ian rolls his eyes at him and only barely shakes his head, focusing on helping Yevgeny when he reaches for his spoon and starts digging in.

”Careful,” he mutters and picks up a napkin left over from dinner, folding it in over the neckline of the kid’s Spider-Man costume as a kind of bib. Svetlana had insisted on Yevgeny’s birthday dinner being fancy, bossing Mickey around all day and roping Ian into baking and decorating, setting the table with passably matching cutlery and blue paper napkins matching the ironed sheet moonlighting as a table cloth for the occasion.

Not that Mother Russia needs to hear it to know it, but it turned out pretty great. A fuck-ton better than the kid’s first birthday anyway, that’s for goddamned sure. Mickey’d been drunk out of his mind and Svetlana had had one foot out the door, threatening in no uncertain terms to never come back again if Mickey didn’t clean up his act. 

As tempting as the idea of never having to see the bitch again had been (and still is), no one was more surprised than Mickey when he’d realized he’d do whatever it takes to keep his son in his life. To give the kid some kinda decent childhood, as far removed as possible from the ways both of his parents had grown up.

Guess that includes getting him shit like balloons and birthday candles, and seizing every little opportunity there is to celebrate whatever good thing they’ve got. 

Against all odds, Yevgeny’s eyelids start to droop halfway through his narrow slice of cake and then it’s not long before he’s sinking into Ian’s arms and dozing off completely. The napkin is stained with sticky frosting and chocolate cake crumbs, and Ian gingerly removes it from under Yevgeny’s chin as Svetlana picks him up.

She holds him to her chest and mumbles to him in Russian, her voice barely audible at all once she’s left the kitchen. Ian sighs and immediately stands up to start clearing the table.

”Leave it,” Mickey says, still halfway through his own, much larger piece of cake, and raises a pointed eyebrow at Ian when he frowns at him, ”go do your thing and I’ll take care of this.”

Ian seems to hesitate for a second, his tired stony face not giving away a whole lot of what he’s thinking, before he gives in with a slight nod. Leaving, he rests a light hand on Mickey’s shoulder as he’s brushing past him, giving it a quick squeeze before he’s gone out the door. Mickey sits alone in the kitchen and finishes the crumbly cake left on his plate, and maybe even cuts himself another piece when it’s done, and he listens to the soft sounds of his house as his family is getting ready for bed.

Yevgeny’s sleepy giggles from his bedroom, and Svetlana’s usually sharp tone smoothing out into the slow lullaby she always sings to him as he falls asleep. This one Mickey doesn’t have to guess wether it’s morose or not, he asked her once to translate it for him and so he knows exactly what kinda fucked up shit the Russians consider comforting. Fucking wolves by the bed, ready to chomp down on kids sleeping too close to the edge, and drag them to some creepy old bat in the woods. Yevgeny seems to like it though, he’s one badass little kid, and guess Mickey can admit that it sounds kinda nice as the melancholy words float through the quiet house.

He listens to the shower turning on and the water rushing through the pipes, splashing against the bathtub as he imagines it cascading down Ian’s shoulders and back. He thinks he should’ve gotten used to it by now, not getting to see him or touch him, but honestly it’s just getting worse with every day passing. It’s not a problem, Mickey can fucking deal with it just fine, but he finds it kinda hilarious and tragic that even after all this time and everything that’s gone down between them, he still can’t be in the same room as the guy without wanting to step up to him; move into his space, touch him in any kinda way and for any available reason.

But it’s good. They don’t talk about it, Ian doesn’t call him out on his unspoken residual feelings and Mickey tries not to be too fucking obvious about it. It’s surprisingly easy, but then again they always did make a good team. Especially when they’re pretending that everything’s fine.

Mickey clears the table and does the dishes, setting them up on the rack to dry on their own before wiping his hands on his jeans and walking through the house. His room is a mess, the wallpaper started peeling halfway through painting so there was nothing to do but start over; pulling down the old paper and sanding down whatever was left before redoing the whole damned paint job. It’s far more effort than Mickey ever wanted to put into fixing up his own bedroom, but whatever, he didn’t argue when Svetlana insisted that they give all the rooms the same thorough treatment, so guess he can’t complain too much about it now.

Anyway, the more of the old shit getting thrown out or covered up, the better. And since Ian moved in and spent his restless days off work using up whatever energy he’s got left over on plastering and painting, Mickey’s had to do a lot less of all that shit on top of his daily 9 to 5. He did try to get Ian to stay the fuck out of it, and convalesce in front of the goddamned TV like any patriotic American would, but the guy insisted that it helps. Makes him feel less useless, he says, like fighting cancer isn’t enough of a chore.

Mickey sits down on the edge of his bed, the heavy duty plastic sheet rustling under his weight and the tools and rollers and shit laid out over the protective cover inching closer to him as the bedding dips. A brush rolls down the slope and settles in along his thigh, and he picks it up to absently pull clumps of dried paint from its bristles as he waits.

Eventually, the door to the bathroom unlocks and is pushed open, steam from the shower wafting out in the little hallway outside it. Mickey drops the brush back down on the bed and walks over to the bathroom, leaving the door wide open to air out some of the humidity as he joins Ian in the narrow room.

Mickey’s old ensuite has been turned into a mini-pharmacy since Ian moved in, his orange battery of pill bottles lined up over the sink and every surface scrubbed squeaky clean. Ian spent a lot of time in there his first week, sick and weak from starting a new cycle, so it only made sense for the safety and comfort of all involved to quarantine the room from anyone else in the house.

Mickey stands back as Ian pulls on a t-shirt and sits down on the closed toilet lid, the thin fabric of his boxers sticking lightly to his still damp skin and making his legs look even skinnier than they already are. He’s been eating a lot better over the past week or so, but not enough to counterbalance the months of malnourishment he’s suffered between the nausea and depression brought on by the repeated cycles of chemo.

Gone is the wiry kid Mickey never could resist, and gone is the strung out chiseled God he carried out of Boystown, trying to save him from a kind of life he never was supposed to have. Still he somehow looks exactly the same; back hunched and elbows on his knees as he’s glancing up at Mickey, silently watching him step into the bathroom.

”Here,” Mickey suddenly remembers, digging his hand down his back pocket to pull out the flattened piece of fabric he’s been sitting on since he got back from the Kash & Grab, ”got you something.”

Ian looks surprised, but still sits back to catch the thing when Mickey smirks and lobs it at him.

”Nice,” Ian grins as he unfolds the orange beanie, bending his neck to immediately stretch it over his bald head, ”yeah?”

Mickey bites his lip and snorts, carefully sidestepping the urge to smile and say something stupid about how perfect he looks.

”Seamless,” he says instead, and allows himself to grin when Ian laughs, ”hang on, you look like you’re in special ed or something.”

He steps forward so he can grab the tag hanging down over Ian’s left ear, and with one hand holding down the beanie he tugs off the label in one swift motion.

”There,” he mutters and steps back again, turning away to throw the tag in the trash, ”you good to go?”

Ian doesn’t say anything, but Mickey can see him nodding out of the corner of his eye as he starts to carefully scrub his hands with antibacterial soap, repeating the step twice over before turning off the tap with his elbow and drying himself off on some sterile paper towels.

Sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, Mickey scoots himself closer as Ian turns towards him, their knees knocking before interlocking and forming a surface for Ian to rest his arm, exposing the bandage covering the inside of his elbow.

”You don’t have to keep doing this,” he mumbles as Mickey is peeling off the day-old bandage, ”it’s fine now.”

”Yeah, sure,” Mickey doesn’t even bother looking up to make his point, leaning forward to inspect the pale skin around the catheter for any sign of irritation, ”until it isn’t.”

Ian says nothing, but Mickey can practically hear his protruding chin in the silence.

”’Sides,” he continues as he prepares the syringe, filling it and tapping it to get rid of any air bubbles, ”either this or I gotta start shooting up smack or something, make sure I don’t waste my new skill.”

”Or you could switch careers,” Ian suggests, somewhere halfway between sarcastic and sincere, as far as Mickey can tell, ”become a full time nurse.”

”Nah, man,” Mickey clicks his tongue and raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t take his eyes off his work as he squirts out a couple of drops from the syringe before inserting it to flush the catheter, ”pretty sure my nurturing side only extends so far, you know?”

”Bullshit,” Ian says and swallows, and his eyes are closed when Mickey glances up at him to check if he’s alright, ”you’re great with children _and_ stubborn assholes who don’t wanna accept any help, that shit alone could get you far.”

”One child,” Mickey corrects him, pulling out the syringe and carefully cleaning the skin around the port, ”and one specific stubborn asshole. All done.”

Ian opens his eyes and looks down at his arm, nodding a little and letting out a slow breath as Mickey throws away the pieces they can’t reuse in the sharps box.

”Thanks,” he sighs, his whole body kinda sagging as he seems to relax again, watching Mickey clean up his arm and reapply the bandaging.

”Sure,” Mickey mumbles, refusing to look up and risk Ian seeing how much it means to him to hear that one small, heartfelt word, ”whatever.”

Biting his lip as he fastens the end of the bandage, Mickey clears his throat when he’s done and gets up to move all the stuff over to the sink, turning on the tap.

”What I don’t get,” he says, raising his eyebrows and throwing a glance back at Ian, ”is how in the hell you managed all this on your own for a month and a half with you acting like such a bitch around needles.”

Ian flashes him a quick grin at the comfortable insult, but then he huffs and shakes his head. Mickey washes his hands and lets the question hang in the silence, leaves it up to Ian to either answer or take it on the chin.

”Didn’t,” he eventually says, eyes steady and earnest when Mickey sneaks another glance in his direction, ”obviously.”

Obviously. Only one of the worst fucking nights of his life, and Mickey’s had plenty of those to choose from so guess that’s saying something. Getting home from work to find Ian curled up on Mandy’s bed, soaking through the sheets and burning up, a red rash spreading out from under the bandaged PICC line. The damned infection had them in the ER all night, Mickey pacing the waiting room and feeling his heart breaking all over again.

Lip had come rushing in after a couple of hours, spouting bullshit like it _wasn’t Mickey’s fault_. Like who knows what would have happened if Mickey hadn’t been there to take him to the ER in time. Nice but useless fucking sentiments that would’ve gotten the asshole punched if Mickey hadn’t been so relieved to see him.

Ian had been talking about probably moving back to the Gallaghers’ that week, and guess neither of them had been expecting a fucking infection to work in favor of extending his stay at the Milkovich house. But that’s what it did. When the fever cleared and Ian was discharged, Mickey watched him talk to his brother for a couple of minutes before hugging him with his good arm and leaving him there to let Mickey drive them both back home.

”Hey,” Mickey turns off the tap and pulls the towel off the rack to dry his hands, ”what was that song you used to sing to Yev when he was a baby?”

Ian groans.

” _When he was a baby_ , really, Mick?” he says, shaking his head. ”Don’t say shit like that, he’s still a baby.”

”Yeah, alright,” Mickey scoffs and gestures at Ian with the towel, ”answer the fucking question.”

”A song?” Ian asks, screwing his face up in thought.

”Yeah, like a lullaby,” Mickey prompts him and attempts to hum a couple of bars of it, from memory, wincing at how wrong it sounds out loud, ”if only, if only…”

”Oh wow,” Ian grins, ”yeah, sure. I remember. It’s not even a real song, it’s from a movie.”

”Sing it,” Mickey kinda surprises himself with the demand, but not nearly as much as it seams to surprise Ian.

”Fuck no,” he huffs, and then laughs as he shakes his head when Mickey pretends to look hurt.

”Why the fuck not?”

”’Cause,” Ian sputters, throwing up his hands, ”you’re not a baby, and it’s fucking embarrassing. Look that shit up on YouTube if you really wanna hear it, I’m not singing.”

”Lettin’ me down, Gallagher,” Mickey sighs and puts away his supplies in the cupboard under the sink.

”Jesus,” Ian pulls a hand over his head, pushing the beanie back down when it’s dragged back with the habitual movement, ”was the only lullaby I knew, I used to sing it to Yev when he was being fussy. What made you think of that?”

Mickey shrugs.

”Kid said something that kinda brought it back,” he says, ”guess you brainwashed us both with that shit, man, congrats.”

He tries to make it sound like he is teasing, but the way Ian’s looking at him makes it impossible. He shoves the sterile wipes into the cupboard and tries to ignore it.

”What a day, huh?” Ian hums, obviously noticing Mickey’s discomfort and once again trying to steer the conversation towards lighter topics. ”One good day.”

Mickey nods and thumbs at the side of his nose, looking around himself to make sure he’s not forgotten anything.

”We done here?” he asks. ”You need anything else?”

Letting out a slow, soft sigh, Ian shakes his head. ”I’m good, just tired.”

”Get some sleep,” Mickey says and nods, hesitating for a second before continuing, ”I’m gonna head off to work early tomorrow and stop by Jay’s before coming home.”

Ian stands up and moves over to the sink, forcing Mickey to make way by backing out through the doorway.

”Fine,” he says and shrugs one shoulder, not looking at Mickey as he grabs his toothbrush, ”we’ll be fine.”

”Yeah,” Mickey winces at himself, ”not gonna be late or anything but Svet’s got her shift at seven and-”

”I know, it’s fine,” Ian interrupts him as he squirts out some toothpaste on his brush, the tube flat and curled and almost completely empty, ”I like watching Yev, you know that.”

He shoves the toothbrush into his mouth as though to definitively put an end to the conversation, and meets Mickey’s eyes through he mirror for a second before looking down, vigorously brushing his teeth. Mickey stands in the doorway and watches him for a moment, trying to wrap his head around the shifting mood between them.

Ian kinda acts like a little bitch whenever Jamie comes up in conversation – which isn’t often because Mickey’s got zero interest in discussing his current love life with his ex – and Mickey rarely knows what to make of it. He clams up and acts like nothing is wrong, which isn’t working at all since Mickey knows all his acts by heart and this one in particular, because it used to be his favorite before it became the one that hurt the most.

”Yeah,” Mickey says, deciding to leave well enough alone, and starts backing away, ”night, Ian.”

The house is quiet when he walks into the darkened living room, switching on the small light next to the couch so he can see what he’s doing as he’s rearranging the pillows and spreading out his sheets to turn it into a makeshift bed. He grabs the remote and sits down, turning on the TV and putting his feet up on the coffee table as he settles in to surf the channels, looking for anything to distract himself from his thoughts.

The volume is low enough that he can still hear the soft sound of Ian’s bare feet over the hardwood floors as he pads through the hallway towards Mandy’s bedroom.

”Night, Mick,” he says, and his low voice is immediately followed by the sound of the door closing behind him.

Mickey sighs and leaves the TV to quietly play some kinda Real Housewife rerun as he drops the remote and pulls out his phone instead, tapping his way through a couple of apps before opening up his messages.

His last text to Jamie was three weeks ago, and the five before that have all gone unanswered. He never expected anything else and, apart from a dull kind of sadness of losing someone he’d thought of as a becoming a good friend, it’s not really Jamie he’s missing. It’s not thoughts of Jamie that occupy his mind, that run through his dreams, that flood his senses as he steals moments to himself to get off on his own.

And maybe he’s acting like a bitch too, whenever Jamie comes up in conversation, but he likes to imagine that he does it for a reason. He never told Ian that Jamie broke up with him, because it felt like something Ian would take responsibility for and that would only add to the long list of things already making him feel like shit. And because it’s none of Ian’s business, anyway, and because it seemed like a good way to maintain some kinda distance between them as they suddenly found themselves thrust back together in the same house.

So, a couple of nights a week Mickey leaves home to ’hang out with Jamie’, but instead goes to drink alone at a bar, or hang out with some buddies from work, or with varying success cruise guys at some dive on Halsted. And aside from the weird feeling he gets whenever he opens his mouth to explicitly lie about it, it’s actually kinda nice. It gives him some time to himself he rarely ever gets at the house; it has forced him to actually hang out with his co-workers more than he otherwise would have, and thus reluctantly made himself a couple of casual friends; and it gets his dick sucked from time to time, which isn’t a problem at all.

Lying to Ian is the only hard part of it, but all he has to do to make it easier is to remind himself that they’re not actually together and that he doesn’t owe Ian shit, anymore. Not when it comes to this stuff.

He owes him a lot, but not that.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends. I'm a little nervous. Please accept my humble apologies for my recent, unplanned hiatus. I'm getting back into the swing of things now, and I'm hoping to find more time to write over the next few months. Thank you for your patience and kindness, I hope there's still some interest left in this story!
> 
> [Here's a playlist of a bunch of kinda sad songs](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/3ZUC9HuJj9DDsOGb4qOvhQ), to which I listen while I write this. And also, a [Russian lullaby](https://youtu.be/8f8WYvAo-RA), [a song they sing](https://youtu.be/ojCPQ7ELW04) in the wonderful movie [Holes](https://youtu.be/rqi_StXDhpU), and [Song of the Crocodile Gena](https://youtu.be/v-0xugvRnUg) (also featured in the aforementioned playlist).


	5. The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for chapter five: consensual sexual content that ends in some emotional distress, and something akin to a brief panic attack.

March 26  
_ _ _ _ _

 

It’s pitch black when Mickey wakes up with a start, blinking up at the dark and slowly relaxing back into the pillow as he covers his face with his hands. He can’t remember what he’d been dreaming about but he thinks it must have been something rough to jolt him awake like that, with the rest of the house still and quiet around him.

He sighs and turns on his side, lifting the covers and rolling in place so he won’t fall off the edge of the couch, and pushing the side of his face into the pillow he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will himself to drift off again. He’s sinking into the warmth of slumber when he’s slowly made aware of a sound; a distant whimpering that instinctually has him pulling up the blanket to cover his ear and block it out, whatever it is.

Growing up in the house he did, a noise like that usually meant someone was jerking off, or fucking, neither which were anything he wanted to lie around and listen to. Or it meant someone was crying. Which, honestly, he didn’t really wanna hear either. 

They don’t talk about any of that shit in this house. It was none of his fucking business if Mandy was getting plowed two doors down, or if Iggy was rubbing one out on the couch when no one was around. And it sure as fuck wasn’t anyone’s damned business when Mickey cried himself to sleep every other fucking night after that first time with Svetlana, when he couldn’t get through the days without drinking – or look at Ian’s beat-up face without remembering – and his old man acted like the whole thing was a done deal.

If he woke anyone up with that shit back then, he’s sure they just rolled over and went back to sleep, pillow over their head to block out the sound. In his family, it’s considered a kindness to let people be alone with their sadness.

And he still kinda thinks it is, in some ways – he has enough integrity to maintain that too much emotional _sharing_ is hugely overrated – but he has also learnt some shit about himself in the past couple of years that pretty much goes against everything he’d once been told would make him strong, make him tough, make him a Milkovich. When he hears his son cry, even when it’s annoying as fuck and for no reason at all, he finds himself wanting to fix it instead of ignore it. And the few times he’s ever seen Ian cry, he didn’t want to leave him alone. He wanted to wrap him up and hold him close until he remembered that they’ve still got something good, as long as they’ve got each other.

Mickey snaps his eyes open and abruptly sits up, freezing to stop the rustling of the sheet tangling around his legs so he can listen, straining his ears to make sure he wasn’t just dreaming or imagining things.

He didn’t. There. It’s soft and far away, but he can hear it. Sharp, shallow intakes of breath and wet, stifled sighs.

He doesn’t think, he just kicks out his legs to untangle himself from the sheets and heaves himself out of the couch, sluggishly navigating through the dark living room.

Mandy’s door is closed, but it isn’t locked when he carefully turns the knob and opens it.

”Ian?”

The silence is almost oppressive when Ian stills on the bed and seems to hold his breath, probably waiting for Mickey to give up and leave him alone again. Tough fucking shit, Mickey didn’t invite him to convalesce at his house just to ignore the guy when he’s hurting.

Ian’s got his back turned to the door, and his right hand is clutching at his left arm, just above the stark white bandage which seems almost luminescent in the dark. He has pushed the sheet down to his hips, and Mickey just assumes that his ass is as naked as the rest of him. Ian never did like wearing clothes when he slept, and only ever really put on boxers and a tee as a courtesy to others whenever he left the bedroom at night to pee or get a glass of water.

Mickey takes a couple of quiet steps into the room and closes the door behind him, and he doesn’t know if it’s because Ian thinks he’s left or because he’s decided to give up the pointless pretense, but he lets go of his breath in a shaky sigh and curls up on himself. Mickey walks closer to the bed and tries to catch sight of his face, but Ian buries it deeper into his pillow and raises his shoulder to shield himself from view.

”Ian,” Mickey tries again, shrugging when his hands want to run away from him and reach out, ”come on, man, I gotta know if there’s something wrong.”

Ian huffs out a wet laugh and Mickey can see his long fingers digging into the soft skin on his arm.

”Go away, Mickey,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry or annoyed, just deeply resigned, ”fuck… everything’s wrong, I-”

He starts crying again, letting go of his arm to cover his face with his hands as his whole body shakes with repressed sobs. Mickey gently picks up the edge of the sheet and climbs into the bed, covering himself as he shuffles closer to Ian and lies down behind him, making sure to not touch him.

”You wanna like-,” he mutters and rolls his eyes at himself, annoyed with how bad he is at this, ”wanna talk about this shit, or something?”

Ian sobs and laughs at the same time, and then he lets go of his face to reach a hand behind him and blindly grab at Mickey until he finds his elbow. Mickey follows his lead when Ian pulls his arm around himself, fitting their fingers together and clutching their hands to his chest as Mickey moves closer. 

Skin prickling where they touch, Mickey carefully hugs himself to Ian’s back. It’s probably not a good idea but he couldn’t give a single fuck about that right now, as he’s pressing a dry kiss to the nape of Ian’s neck and he nuzzles his face into his warm skin. 

Breathing in, Mickey closes his eyes and numbly decides to focus solely on the restless thuds of Ian’s heartbeat under the palm his hand. He counts the beats and, little by little, he feels how they start to slow down and even out as Ian breathes with him.

They lie there together in silence for a long while, before Ian sighs, like he’s giving a kind of heads up that he’s about to say something.

”I hate this,” he eventually mumbles.

”I know,” Mickey says and tightens his grip on Ian’s fingers for a second, like an awkward squeeze of his hand. 

He thinks he should say something, ask something, make sure that Ian knows he’s ready to listen if he ever wants to talk. But then Ian untangles their fingers and he’s turning around under Mickey’s arm until they’re nose to nose and knees to knees and Mickey finds himself unable to do anything but stare into Ian’s still wet eyes as they come into view.

”Hey,” Ian breathes out, eyes flitting from side to side as they seem to search Mickey’s for some kinda sign. Mickey imagines that he most likely looks as dumbstruck as he’s feeling.

”What-,” he says, breath hitching when he feels Ian’s hands against his stomach, one pulling at the hem of his boxers and the other snaking down to cup over his dick, ”what are you doing?”

”I miss you,” Ian says, like it’s any kinda reason for him to be touching Mickey like this, or for Mickey’s treacherous dick to like it so much, ”just wanna forget everything, pretend like nothing’s changed.”

”Shit,” Mickey closes his eyes and bites his lip and can’t resist pushing into Ian’s tentative touch, ”fuck are you doing?”

”Wanna feel you,” Ian continues, his voice breathy yet more assertive when Mickey doesn’t immediately turn him down, ”want you to fuck me and make me forget about-”

He hesitates, biting off the end of his sentence. Mickey frowns and opens his eyes, but any argument he might have had stick in his throat when he sees the flash of desperation in Ian’s face.

”Please,” he mumbles and moves even closer, rubbing at Mickey’s still hardening dick and dropping his gaze to his lips, ”I haven’t had a fucking boner since I started taking those nausea pills and I’m so fucking tired of feeling like this.”

The words seem to rush out of him now, and as far as dirty talk goes it’s pretty fucking bad, but Mickey’s body doesn’t seem to give a shit. It is revving with desire for Ian to touch him and kiss him and take him. This is a bad idea.

”I want to forget,” Ian closes his eyes and their noses nudge when he tips his face closer, ”wanna feel you, just for tonight.”

Mickey feels himself surrendering, ready to give in to Ian’s strangely tempting proposition and familiar touch without any further argument, but the very same desperate want is also the thing that makes him push away from Ian’s warmth and hands. He scrambles backwards and gets off the bed, and doesn’t wait for Ian to make another move before he leaves the room.

Breathing heavily, Mickey strides past the living room and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He locks the door behind himself and pacing the narrow room a couple of times he pulls his hands through his hair and tries to snap the fuck out of the spell of arousal Ian has cast on him, fogging up his brain and tingling through his body.

What the fuck, _what the actual fucking fuck._

This is such a terrible fucking idea, just the absolute fucking worst. But also, he kinda just wants it. He wants it so fucking bad, even though he knows it’s not going to make any kinda difference for either of them.

Only, maybe it will. Maybe Ian will feel better for a little while, something he really fucking deserves, and maybe Mickey can get some form of ending to this thing he can’t seem to let go. Break-up sex, that’s a thing people have, right? Gotta be having it for a reason.

It’s just _fucking_. They used to do it all the time without it meaning so fucking much, it just made them feel good and helped them forget about their shitty lives for a while. One night, just one night pretending that the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and it’s just them. There’s no hurt, no illness, no break-up, no outside force prying them apart.

Just tonight and Mickey’s stiff cock, refusing to calm the fuck down.

”Really?” he accuses the tent in his boxers, before sighing in defeat and pulling open the cabinet under the sink to grab the half-full bottle of lube and sleeve of condoms he’s got stashed next to the TP. ”Guess we’re doing this.”

His heart is practically beating through his chest as he walks back towards Mandy’s room, but he feels strangely calm when he steps through the door and sees Ian stretched out on his back, hands over his face. Leaning back against the door, he shoves it closed behind himself and swallows when Ian lowers his hands at the sound. His eyes are wide and his mouth falls open, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Mickey as he moves through the room.

”This is just for tonight,” Mickey says, but thinks he might have been asking when Ian presses his lips together and nods, ”are you sure?”

”Yeah, fuck-,” Ian breaths out and closes his eyes for a second, ”I’m sure.”

And when he opens his eyes again, it’s like Mickey hasn’t seen him in years. Like he hasn’t changed at all since the last time he looked at Mickey with heat and want and that kind of cocky pride he seemed to spare for him alone. Mickey tore down all his walls for that look, once, addicted to how it made him feel even before he realized what it was doing to his heart.

Mickey drops down the lube and condoms on the bed and pulls off his tank, letting it fall it to the floor as he’s pushing down his boxers so he can step out of them when he moves closer to the bed.

”On your stomach,” he says and thumbs at his nose when Ian takes a second to react, like he might have changed his mind. But then he lifts himself up on his elbows and turns around, grabbing one of his pillows to cross his arms under it and rest his head, glancing back at Mickey through the corner of his eye.

Mickey grabs the sheet and pulls it down enough to expose Ian’s bare ass, as he crawls up on the bed on his knees. Shoving the lube and condoms closer, he straddles the back of Ian’s thighs and sits down, flattening his hands over his ass and slowly pushing them up the line of his back, dipping down before curving over his tense shoulders.

”Fuck,” he mutters as he lifts himself up further to reach the back of Ian’s neck and his dick ends up nestled between his ass cheeks, dragging along his crack when he rolls his hips a couple of times to test it out. Ian sighs and seems to relax a little, but when Mickey digs the pads of his thumbs into the base of his neck he gasps and groans, and bucks his back into the touch.

”You’re so fucking tense, man,” Mickey frowns, sidetracked by the way Ian feels under his hands.

”Mh,” Ian hums into the pillow when Mickey kneads his fingers into his muscles, ”feels good.”

Well, that fucking settles that. Putting his initial plans on hold, Mickey sits back and picks up the lube, pouring some out to rub it between his hands until he thinks it’s warm enough. Then he scoots up a little to sit more firmly on top of Ian’s ass and slowly starts spreading the lube over his back, starting with his neck and working his way down his spine to the shallow dimples on his lower back.

Ian lets out a quiet, muffled moan and Mickey bites his lip as he leaves his dick hanging, stiff and bobbing in reaction to every little sound Ian is making and the feel of his warm skin when he works his way back up to rub at his neck and out across his shoulders.

”When was the last time you did this?” Mickey asks.

”Getting a massage or having sex?” Ian wonders lazily, and Mickey can see him smiling when he drives his thumb into a tough knot with a little more force than strictly necessary.

”Hilarious,” Mickey tries to sound annoyed, but finds it really hard what with being naked and fully sprung on top of Ian smiling like a goof, ”when, specifically, was the last time someone shoved something up your ass, Romeo?”

Ian huffs and groans when Mickey finds another tough spot to work. ”Been a while.”

”Okay,” Mickey says and decides to drop it, moving over to the back of his neck and thoroughly kneading his fingertips into his skin, slowly inching up towards the hem of his orange beanie. Mickey doesn’t know why Ian insists on sleeping with it on, but he doesn’t ask. Maybe it gets cold at night.

”Not since you,” Ian eventually admits with a sigh, after a couple of minutes of Mickey working in silence. 

He really didn’t have to, and it’s not like it matters. But Ian’s been banging other dudes the whole time Mickey’s been with him, for one bullshit reason or another, and he’s never talked about it like this before. Like there’s a distinction between what he used to do with Mickey and what he’s doing with whoever, now. Like maybe he’s realized just how fucked up they were, towards the end, and decided to own up to his part in letting it get that far.

And maybe it doesn’t matter, but it feels like an apology.

Stilling his hands on the center of Ian’s back, Mickey bends down to touch a quick kiss to his shoulder, before he sits up again and scoots down to straddle his thighs instead. Getting some more lube, he rubs his slick fingers along Ian’s crack, stopping to tentatively nudge at his rim. 

Ian hums and buries his face into his pillow, and his hips rock slightly under Mickey’s steadying weight.

Dipping the tip of his middle finger inside, Mickey teases it in and out for a while before sinking in to the second knuckle, listening intently to the soft noises Ian lets out at each small step.

Feeling him flex and relax around the one digit, Mickey drives it in and out, twisting and searching until Ian squirms under him and bucks his hips into the mattress, shoves back and forces him deeper inside. Mickey grins and puts his free hand to Ian’s lower back to keep him still, and absently ruts his neglected cock against his thigh as he gently eases another finger inside him.

”Fuck that’s good,” Ian mutters and tries to move, stilling when Mickey doesn’t let up on his hold, ”forgot how good this is.”

Mickey takes his time to slowly fuck his fingers into Ian’s warm hole, shallow and purposefully until Ian is panting and fisting the sheets on either side of his head, pillow long since pushed to the side. He looks so good and moans like a fucking dream, bringing back vivid memories of the relatively few times they used to flip things around when they were hot and heavy. Feeling like he’s about to fucking burst, Mickey digs his fingers into Ian’s lower back and starts to stretch him out in earnest, pleased when it gets Ian to bend his knees a little and spread his legs so Mickey can fit himself between them.

”You still sure?” he asks as he pulls out his fingers and grabs the condoms, tearing one open.

”Yeah, yeah,” Ian pants into the mattress and rolls his body, sticking up his ass like he wants to be extra clear, ”fuck yeah Mickey, please.”

Mickey groans at the sight and fumbles a little with the condom, grabbing himself and rolling it on before pouring out a generous amount of lube and coating it all over the thin latex.

Putting one hand to the mattress for support, he grabs his stiff cock with the other and blindly guides it to rub the head along Ian’s perineum until it catches on his rim.

”Oh fuck,” he stutters as he sinks in, trying to take it slow even while he feels Ian’s warm body engulfing him and working around him, pulling him in. He moves his hands off of Ian and sinks down on his elbows, burying his face between Ian’s shoulder blades as he slides all the way inside his slicked up hole, hipbones digging into the soft cheeks of his ass.

He goes slow at first, but feels the urgency in the pit of his stomach building and taking over, snapping his hips harder and faster until he’s holding on to Ian’s shoulders for leverage and fucking into his hole as fast as the position will allow.

It’s the kinda thing he loved when Ian did it to him, held him down and fucking went for it. But it was never really like that whenever they’d switched it up; lazy and fucked out and taking their sweet time. Usually high up a treat and on their third round in as many hours, too. Laughing as they play-wrestled for the upper hand, he’d tease Ian about being a silent top but a loud as fuck bottom. And Ian would act all offended and macho and argue his way to Mickey sticking his tongue up his ass and eat him out until Ian proved him right; thrashing and moaning and practically sobbing Mickey’s name as he came.

This is nothing like it were. Ian is quiet, his face shoved down into the mattress and one arm reaching back over his shoulder, fingers curled around Mickey’s wrist where he’s still holding on to him.

”I wanna-,” Mickey gasps and slows down before carefully pulling out, ”turn around, I need to see you.”

Ian seems to hesitate for a moment, but then he does what Mickey asks, shuffling around to his back when Mickey lifts himself up on his hands and knees.

His eyes are wet again but his chin is out and he grabs on to the back of his own thighs, bending his knees and once again spreading his legs to accommodate for Mickey’s body.

And Mickey doesn’t argue with his silent request, reaching above them to grab Ian’s discarded pillow and wedge it in under his hips to help the angle. Locking his elbows to keep some distance between their upper bodies, Mickey carefully lines himself up and sinks back inside. Ian’s eyes pinch closed and his mouth falls open, and Mickey studies his face as he slowly starts moving his hips, alternating between shallow and deep thrusts, quick and slow, until Ian’s chest is flushed and heaving and his face is smoothed out in pleasure.

Mickey makes sure to find his spot and then he drives into it, lets himself go and snap his hips faster when he knows it’s good for them both. Feeling his long legs close around his waist, bony heels digging into his ass, Mickey drops down to his elbows and buries his face in the crook of Ian’s neck, trying to ground himself as he’s steadily pushed over the edge by the guttural sounds of pleasure Ian is groaning into his ear.

He comes like a fucking car crash, shaking and stuttering as he tries to shove himself deeper inside Ian’s body, his senses numb and rushing and not realizing at first that Ian is pushing at him to get off.

Pulling out, he scrambles up on his elbows and grabs at Ian’s face to see what’s wrong. His cheeks are wet and his eyes are closed, but he’s still desperately pushing his hands up and turning away, ribs rising and falling furiously as he gasps for air. Realizing that Ian must be having some kinda fucking panic attack, Mickey quickly rolls off him and scoots away to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to shake his orgasm and regain some composure. Pulling in a couple of deep breaths, he feels his own heart rate start to even out in step with Ian’s labored breaths calming down behind him.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Mickey sighs and pulls the stretched-out condom off his deflated dick and throws it in the trash can under the bedside table. He tries to think of something to say, but decides to leave well enough alone by getting the fuck outta there and hopefully never speaking of this fucking monument of a mistake again.

But when he puts his hands to the mattress to push himself up, he feels the light touch of Ian’s fingers against his skin, barely there at first and then gently stroking up and down the inside of his wrist.

”Sorry,” Ian whispers behind him and Mickey feels his whole body deflate at the sound of it.

Glancing over his shoulder, he finds Ian looking back up at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and wide, but that flash of panic is gone and he’s back to studying Mickey in that way he does. Like he knows every page of Mickey’s book, but still doesn’t seem to _get it_.

It’s kinda funny, Mickey never considered himself especially complicated. Yet Ian always had a way of making him feel endlessly complex and entirely single-minded all at once. 

And he shouldn’t be _sorry_. It’s not his fault that sex never fixes anything for shit, and imagining that it might is just dumb desire and wishful thinking.

”Stay?” Ian asks, his voice barely audible at all as he watches Mickey apprehensively and his fingers carefully close around his wrist. 

Mickey shakes his head but still lies back down on the bed, pulling the sheet up to cover them both. They settle in next to each other, Mickey on his back and Ian carefully leaving an inch or two between them as he turns on his side. Slowly releasing the air in his lungs, Mickey feels the weight of Ian’s gaze on the side of his face. Bathing over him like fucking sunlight, soaking through him and settling deep under his skin.

Maybe this was a bad idea, he thinks as he closes his eyes and feels himself relax, and maybe this didn’t fix anything. But being close to Ian just makes sense, like nothing else does, and maybe this is exactly what they both need right now.

No words, no sex, no bullshit. Just the two of them, just this.

 

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : |


End file.
